Skip to main content

Full text of "The M.A.C. literary monthly"

See other formats







Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2011 with funding from 

Boston Library Consortium IVIember Libraries 


Volurae 1. 
FeTor uar y- Kay , 1910. 


All in a sunirner's v/ork. Leon Terry, '11^. 50 

Attack, The D. P. Baker, '13. 6 

Aztec irdrror, The R. J, FibIc, *10 24 

Baker, I). P. '13, The attack. 6 

Ervooks, 5. G. 'lO. Tlie wreck. 43 

Clarke, W. R. »in. Winter. 8 

Coleman, Isaac, '13. Flunked out. 22 

Country church, (editorial) 46 

Country comedy, A. J. C. Folsom, '10. 38 

Desert, The A. \7. iJodge, 'IE, 8 

Dodge, A. V/. '12. The desert. 8 

Dodge, A. '//. '12. The old hoy entead. 18 

Dramatics, (editorial) 30 

Duet on the lake. Leon Terry, '12. 18 

Encounter, Tiie R. N. Hallowell, '12. 3 

Fisk, R. J. ♦1'^. 1'hc Aztec mirror. 24 

Flunked out. Isaac Coleman, ♦IS. 22 

FolRom, J. C. '10. ^^ country comedy. 38 

Folsom, J. C. '10. The old woman's shawl. 10 
Gri£:r'R, F. D. 'i3. The song of tne hermit. 42 

Hall owe 1.1, R. N. '12. The encounter. 3 
Hallowell, R. il. 'Ik:. Hov/ to tell a d-ack 

froni a chicken. 60 
How to tell a duck fron. a chicken. 

R.H. Hallowell, '12. 60 

IiTunie: rants, (editorial) 47 
The iiii-^^ortance of the study of rural 

B c i 1 ^y- . 3 . W . ILe n durn ,'10. 59 

JenkB, A. 11, 'll. Jirninie Gri^gB* success. 55 

Jijririie Griggs' Buccess. k, R. Jctiks. *11. 55 

Larsen, II. P. Uo. V/iien winter fleer-. 49 

Life. 61 
Massachucett H agricultural coljege. 

(editorial) 31 

M. A.C. lit, The Eernhard Ostrolenk, '11. 2 
M.A. C. literary ir.ontrJy, The (editorial) 

■pafreB 14,30, 46 and 62 
Matz, Julius, 'irs. One tendeiicy of Xne modern 

■Dlay. 53 
_Icndu:ii, S. yu '10. The iiiiT^ortance of the study 

of rijral sociology. 59 

Nagai , Inahuri, '11. RerniniscencGs. 21 

N(eal) , R. W. Tlie singing plow. 33 

Old homestead, The . A. W. Bodge, '12. 18 

Old's snawl,The J.G.Eolsom '10, 10 
One tendency of the modern ^^lay. 

Julius Matz, '13. 53 

Ostrolenk, Bernhard, '11. The M.A.G. lit. 2 

Reminiscences, ^saburi l^agai,'ll 21 

The senior meditates. R. IT. Hallov/ell '12. 28 

Singing t?1ow, The. R.V/. N(eal). 33 

Song of the hermit, The ?. D. Griggs, '13. 42 

Terry, Leon, '12. All in a sumrer's work. 50 

Terry, Leon, '12. Duet on the lake. 18 

To my love. 1 

Wnen v/inter flees. IT. P. Larsen, '18. 49 

Y/inter, W. R. Clarke, '10 ' 8 

Wreck, The. S. C. Brooks, '10 ■ 43 

m, A. CH- Ctt^rarg iiontiilg 

Vol. I February, 19 io No. i 


In the gathering dusk of evening, 

At the close of busy day, 
With calmness oe'r me creepmg. 

And dull cares all tucked away, 
I find my thoughts soon turning, 

As often they've strayed before. 
To one whose early learning 

Our days in common bore. 
She was ever happy with me 

As we roamed o'er hill and fen, 
Plucked arbutus and the daisy, 

Which disclosed our future, then. 
Mid the woods and fields we wandered, 

Drifted on the peaceful stream. 
Thought that nothing could asunder 

Rend our lives, or come between. 
But the darkness quickly deepens 

Into blackness of the night. 
As the hours then were sweetened, 

The days now are worn with blight. 
Alone, now, my path I travel. 

Driven on by Duty, stem. 
Each day a new web to ravel. 

Without one, for aid, to turn. 
But, through darkness, brightly shining, 

Symbol of your love, so true. 
Gleams a star, our ways defining, 

May it lead again to you! 

The M. A. C. Liter ay Monthly 

l\\t M. A. C ©t 

By Bernhard Ostrolenk, '11 

WITH this issue, The M. A. C. Literary Monthly, diffi- 
dently makes its introductory bow to its readers and 
contemporaries. Its appearance, modest in mien yet 
pretentious in bearing, calls forth interrogatory re- 
marks as to its cause and mission. These interrogations 
must be answered satisfactorily if the Lit hopes to retain 
a place among the college institutions. 

The classical claim, that of "filling a long felt want," 
can only remotely be urged as the immediate cause or object 
of the establishment of the Lit. The absence of a Lit was 
barely realized at M. A. C. Yet, the Lit, though not re- 
garded as a strict necessity, claims to be an indispensable 
part of the college and well worth the effort it exacts for 
its publication. 

The literary magazine provides facilities to encourage 
and develop clear and intelligible expression. This is of 
prime importance to scientific students. The possession of 
knowledge is of value only when ability to impart it to others, 
lucidly and concisely, accompanies it. Clear expression leads 
to logical thinking, which inevitably demands a mastery of 
the subject. 

Furthermiore, the literary magazine affords an opportun- 
ity for activity to a class of men of a philosophic and artistic 
temperament. It is highly desirable to encourage such men 
in their activities, for it is on them that we must depend 
to set the standards of culture and scholarship, and who 
will finally aid in the embodiment of our present ideals of 
science into the literature of the future. 

The literary magazine sets a standard of style and 
expression in the college that is healthy in its influence and 
an invigorating stimulus for perfection in the use of English. 

It also retains for the future the literature produced 
in college. For many men, who, upon graduation, are im- 
mediately thrust into the activities of life, this literature, — 
produced while still standing with awe and admiration before 
the gigantic revelations of the laws of nature that are 
constantly brought before them, produced, while still eager 
in search for new truths, produced in the enthusiasm of 
youth, still filled with phantastic hopes and daring dreams, — 

The Encounter 3 

this literature does not receive an opportunity for continua- 
tion until later in life, when a review of former achievement 
may stimulate to further activity. 

With these introductory remarks the literary magazine 
feels its presence justified and purpose explained to merit 
the recognition and support of the college. As soon as at- 
tention is drawn to it, it begins to meet a distinct need in 
supplementing other college activities. 

By Royal N. Hallowell, '12. 

TiHE Dean of the college sat quietly erect in his office 
chair. Opposite him young Hammond went on with 
^^^ his impetuous monologue. To the end he spoke well. 
^^^ ' Then the Dean mused aloud: 

"Ah, a very young man." 

Whereat young Hammond sprang to his feet and forgot 
to suppress the hot, rash words that came to his lips. 

"You can expel me if you wish, but you can't find a 
single good excuse for doing so. You can't offer one excuse 
to the students they'll not call pure rot. You measure me 
with your eye on the fact that I flunked two studies and 
got into a couple of scrapes; but I measure myself by what 
I've been to old Mainerd as an athlete and a real man." 

"Yes," said the Dean slowly and without emphasis, "we 
can expel you; but pray be seated, Mr. Hammond, in order 
that we may consider your case." 

With a slight motion of his thin, white hand which was 
unwittingly obeyed the Dean directed Hammond to a seat. 
His gray eyes kindled and commanded silence. 

Then, during a long minute, the Dean gazed at his 
office walls as in deep debate over the matter at hand; after 
which he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and, taking 
out a small, flat package, laid it at his elbow. 

"Late in the seventies," said the Dean, at last, "I was 
at Stobum — ^not a large college, you know, but famous. 
I was on the crew — at six. We rowed well and won often. 

4 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

And the victories turned my head so that I forgot that I 
was in college to do anything more than row. But one day 
the President called me to him and said that I could go — 
that the college didn't need me after all." 

The Dean paused and patted a stray, white lock of his 
hair into place, the movement of his arm suggesting big, 
sturdy muscles still moving evenly beneath the coat that 
loosely draped his broad shoulders. 

"I was a senior — like you — when they turned me away," 
he said. 

"In the going I lost much, most of which I have made 
up for; but not all." 

Here the Dean picked up the little package at his elbow 
and, after removing its wrappings, held up a daguerreotype — 
such a picture as was common in the late seventies — the 
picture of a young woman dressed in a manner peculiar to 
the time; which, however, lost no interest because of a poke 
bonnet and a voluminous old-fashioned skirt. 

"In the going," said the Dean, "I lost her." 

He flushed and paused. But after a moment, his face 
regaining its accustomed pallor, he went on: 

"Of course I could not row in the final race of the season 
against Haverford. When the two shells came down the 
course I stood among our boys — with the boys but not one 
of them. And, though a fallen hero, I thought they still 
worshiped me; now I know they only pitied." 

"We looked up the water-way perhaps half a mile and 
saw Haverford leading by a length." 

"Then the boys turned to me: ' Gad, old man, we 
needed you at six to win.' " 

"But as we watched, I spitefully hoped that Haverford 
might indeed win to prove that I could not be dispensed 
with. Stobum shot into the lead and finished strong and 
well ahead." 

"So much for the race," said the Dean. 

"One impression of the day, however, has fastened 
itself most powerfully in my mind — not a very tangible 
impression, for I have always tried to realize it as it came 
to me then. It rises out of the moment when I stood on 
the boat-house landing and saw our big captain helped from 
the shell; the captain rowed stroke. As he rose to his feet 
he tottered and leaned heavily on the arm of the coach, 
for he was all played out." 

" Now, when he was fairly on his feet, there came the 
great, deafening Stobum yell, which I have never listened 
to since — with his name. It was for the fellow at whom, 

The Encounter 5 

within a week, I had sneered, partly because he was a 
scholar, partly because he had refused to blacken his fingers 
with a little of my own deviltry." 

"I turned and went jauntily away. But, as I went, 
listening to the cheers and to the echoes which clamored 
with them, I admitted — indeed the admission and the mem- 
ory of it, has made many things clear to me — 'Such a man 
is a better man than I.' " 

The Dean leaned back in his chair. In one hand he 
held the daguerreotype tightly, with the other smoothed the 
wrinkles which creased his white forehead. He spoke more 
and more quietly, more gravely — to himself. He had quite 
forgot the one who tensely listened. Less and less of the 
late afternoon sunlight came through the office windows and 
the office rapidly darkened. 

"Such a man as he is a better man than I." 

Young Hammond could not take his eyes from the big, 
white-faced, dark-coated Dean around whom the shadows 
were gathering. He could not prevent the sudden distortion 
of vision which is the result" of intense watching and listen- 
ing; the Dean's bulky figure assumed greater proportions; 
its uncertain outlines grew terrifying, and young Hammond 
could not speak. 

The Dean placed the daguerreotype in its wrappings, 
tying the package very carefully and smoothing its corners 
with nice precision and deposited it in his desk. 

"Oh!" Young Hammond buried his face in his hands 
and groaned. 

Switching the electric light at his elbow the Dean fixed 
his keen, gray eyes upon the boy. 

"Mr. Hammond," he said, not unkindly, "is there any- 
thing more to be said in regard to your case?" 

"It is as you say — all' as you say," was the answer, 

"Yes," answered the Dean sadly, "it is all as I say." 

"Your experience is mine, sir, — will be mine. The girl," 
he cried bitterly — "she does not forgive me. In her heart 
she calls me a fool." 

Young Hammond struggled to his feet. 

"I will go." 

The Dean stepped quickly to the other's side and laid 
an arm upon his shoulder. 

"Not yet," he said, in a voice that shook. "My loss is 
your gain. You will not go, my boy. What I want to do 
is to give you another chance." 

The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

Wist Attark 

By Dean F. Baker, Vj. 

HE moonlight shone in through the broad, open 
window; the ends of the musHn curtains swayed 
gently in the soft autumn breeze. It was near the 
midnight hour and the spacious room was the picture 
of peace. Without, even the leaves seemed overcome and 
subdued by the influence of the soft moonlight; they hardly 
mooved in the gentle breeze. Quiet reigned supreme over 
all the moonlit world. 

In the broad path of the pale light, which swept diago- 
nally across the room, stood a large, comfortable looking 
four poster bed. Its massiA^e lines seemed to harmonize 
with the solemn stillness. The figure which occupied this 
stately nocturnal throne stirred uneasily from time to time. 
A guilty conscience or some terrible dream tormented the 
troubled sleeper. From one side of the bed to the other 
the unconscious form rolled in vain endeavor to flee from 
the disturbing thoughts. As if flight had proved futile, and 
the pursued had come to bay, the sleeping figure seemed to 
grapple with the foe; the fingers spasmodically gripped and 
released the bed clothes, then wiggled convulsively to and fro. 

Suddenly the form sprang upward to a sitting position. 
The drawn, pale face of a middle-aged man turned nervously 
this way and -that ; his wide open and frightened eyes taking 
in every detail of the large moonlit room. 

George Keen did not sleep well these nights; business 
was poor and on the verge of a crisis. In addition, midnight 
visitors who disdained to enter by the front door, through 
which the weak, nerve-broken possessor of sullied millions 
so often passed, had for several nights made this and the 
neighboring village their lucrative hunting grounds. The 
situation would have worn on the nerves of a much stronger 

Keen's tense figure remained as still and motionless as 
a graven image. Every nerve was drawn taut and near to 
the breaking point. The short, gray hair stood almost on 
end from terror. The overstrained ears had heard a soft 
sound on the roof of the one-story side extension. This 
was followed by a similar sound from the roof of the porch 
which was built in the angle formed by the house and exten- 
sion. This porch was directly below his window. Another 
sound from each direction and then there was silence. 

The Attack y 

The white pseudo-statuary occupying the four poster 
grew more rigid and still; the eyes and ears strained in the 
direction of the broad, open window; the hands gripped the 
clothes in a wild frenzy. Two minutes passed; the silence 
became awful; the breeze ceased to move the curtains. Not 
a movement or a sound came to relieve the taut nerves. 

But not forever thus. Another soft sound on the porch 
was followed by a similar sound from the extension roof. 
The trembling, feverish hands of the man within groped 
blindly beneath the bed pillow. Then the shining steel of 
a bulldog revolver flashed in the moonlight. The sight 
seemed to reassure the owner. The figure became less tense, 
although the eyes and ears remained alert. 

Again the silence became almost shatterable. The moon 
soon disappeared behind a passing cloud ; the room darkened. 
The alert nerves of the watcher brought him almost to his 
feet on the bed; the revolver swung quick as a shot toward 
the window. Before the trigger could be pulled, the light 
again streamed in; all was peace. 

A second later, two faint, almost inaudible steps, not to 
be detected except by the overstrained ear drums of the 
nervous watcher, were heard on the porch roof. This was 
followed by a slow, steady advance of similar steps from the 
extension roof. The taut nerves and the straining ear drums 
caught the slightest sounds. A nerved imagination enlarged 
these to mammoth proportions. 

Keen could stand it no longer; he stepped cautiously 
from his bed and moved slowly toward the window. The 
steps on the roof advanced as he advanced. Those on the 
porch ceased ; the maker seemed to be listening. Just before 
reaching the window Keen stopped and waited. Standing 
close to the wall, he cocked his revolver and leveled it about 
waist-high across the window. All movements ceased within 
and without. 

A loud, sharp, familiar sound broke and shattered into 
thousands of microscopic specimens that ominous and care- 
fully constructed silence. This was immediately followed 
by another similar wild note about half an octave higher. 
A rush, and then quiet became an unknown quantity. Flats 
and sharps became one glorious "hash." 

One look of relief, then rage, swept across Keen's coun- 
tenance. Shoes, the old familiar weapons for such old familiar 
sounds, remained despised beneath the bed. A revolver 
spat out into the moonlit air. Two swiftly-moving streaks 
of shadow, never before honored by such a respectable attack, 
fled tumultuously in two directions. Keen moved angrily 
back to that comfortable four poster. The moon looked 
steadily upon the world. Peace reigned again supreme. 

8 The M. A. C. Literary Mmithly 


By Walter Roe Clarke, '10 

The frozen moan among the elms, 

The distant mountains, bleak and bare, 
Song birds gone to gayer realms, 

All tell again that winter's here. 
The creak of ice in frozen might 

Awakes the snow flakes to their task. 
They steal upon us in the night 

Like ghosts from out the past. 
December's beard was long and white, 

Like ancient patriarchs of lore. 
He rode, from yesterday's fair night, 

To the mystic land of never more. 
The snow has deck'd the lofty pines 

With glistening gems, so white and clear. 
All Nature's bells ring out, in chimes. 

Her old, old story, that winter's here. 

By Albert W. Dodge, '12 

ABOVE, a cloudless sky, deep blue and fathomless, 
flecked with color only at the rising or setting of the 
burning sun. Beneath, an interminable desert, arid 
and dust beaten, choked with sage bush, prickly 
pear or the sand worn cactus, fluted and gray-green. A 
lifeless region, shunned and feared by man and beast. There 
the wind blew the sand in whirling clouds and the unbroken 
silence seemed mutely to whisper of death without future 
or hope. Beyond the overwhelming stretch rose the foot- 
hills, piling up and up; their summits seemed to form 
the roof of the world ; above them towered still higher the 
mighty mountains, blue-black, huge and forbidding. Their 
summits glistened with the everlasting snow, and down their 
seamed and broken sides ran shining ribbons, life-giving 
water, that never reached the parched and heat-tortured 
earth below. 

The Desert g 

This was the desert that confronted the miner of '49 ; 
this the desert that lay like a taunt to the restless energy 
of the American people, daring them to interfere with its 
endless death and silence. At last there has come a response 
and the voice of the West, so full of possibilities and develop- 
ment, is sounding again its call of adventure and wealth 
unlimited. The desert sand, gathering its fertility for ages, 
needs but the touch of the water to yield its wealth in a 
manner far beyond the wildest dreams of man. This great 
task of reclaiming for the benefit of all the race these thous- 
ands of square miles has been given to the American people 
and they are responding nobly, wresting their reward from 
the lifeless dust that up to now supported only straggling 
brush and cactus. 

It was on December 3, 1901, that President Roosevelt 
sent his message to Congress recommending aid to irrigation 
and the national control of water supply. Seven months 
after. Congress enacted the most beneficent legislation since 
the Homestead Act of '62, and the Reclamation Act became 
history. In 1905 water was turned on 50,000 acres of the 
thirsty land of Nevada. This, the Carson project, marked 
the beginning of the ceaseless activity that has dug 1,881 
miles of canals, some that carry whole rivers like the Truckee 
in Nevada and the North Platte in Wyoming. Dams like 
Minidaha in Idaho have been built, until now 281 impound 
the water on hundreds of rivers and a thousand flumes 
carry it to millions of acres of land. 

Throughout the ages the desert has been calling. Its 
fruitfulness has been silently gathering, and the ceaseless 
struggle for life in that "land that God forgot" has changed 
the scant vegetation until, as C. G. Blanchard of the United 
States Reclamation Service put it, "everything that grows 
is covered with a thorn, and everything that crawls is deadly." 
Now all is changing ; the valleys are bright with golden wheat 
or green with waving com. The orchards are breaking 
under their loads, and comfortable houses dot the stretches 
where the desert had held its sway and lonely coyotes had 
bayed at the glittering stars. Truly "the desert shall bloom 
like a rose" and to the American people shall be the credit 
and reward. 


10 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

m\t ©16 Montana ^Ijaml 

By Josiah C. Folsom, '10 

HiENRY DANE'S painting and papering shop lay on 
the outskirts of the town at just the place where 
town and country merge. Around it were clustered 
several of the homes of humble suburban dwellers. 
The old shop was a relic of days when Springdale had been 
more of a small country town. On stormy days in winter, 
it was not unusual for a group of old cronies and neighbors 
to gather around Henry's big shop stove, tilt back in their 
wooden chairs and arrange their feet on the high rail which 
circled the outside of the firebox. Pipes were lighted, 
coats thrown open and thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of 
vests. With lower man made happy, tongues began to wag 
as they can only in an old New England cross-roads store 
among a congenial group of "old timers." 

Today the usual stormy-day group was settled around 
the fire. Bitter cold, drifting snow and howling winds kept 
most workers inside. So today Henry was busy, or rather 
his men were busy mixing paints for the next fair day's 
work, and overhauling equipment, putting a touch here, making 
a rearrangement there. They were not hurrying. From 
his chair at the stove Henry was leading the story-telling 
and they were as interested in the boss's stories as was 
anyone else. 

"Say, Hen," called one of them, his paint paddle resting 
where it had been for the last five minutes, "what was that 
story you was telling Jim Dugren the other day about you 
'n' Jake Twomey in the war?" 

Henry twisted his portly form around in the chair until 
he could look over his spectacles at the speaker. His big 
voice boomed forth. 

"Don't you mind nothing about Jake Twomey or me 
just now. You get to mixing the old yaller for Fred Keene's 
house. You savve?" 

The man winked at the others and began slowly stirring 
the mixture. 

"Beats all how blamed crazy that fellow will get to hear 
stories when he ought to be at work," the boss remarked, as 
he turned back to the group. He pulled meditatively at his 
pipe for a little. 

"Come on. Hen, you're ready to tell us all about it now." 
This came from one of the circle at the stove. 

Hen removed his pipe. 

The Old Woman s Shawl ii 

"Well, I s'pose so, Bill. You fellows all know old Jake 
Twomey, of course, how nigh played out he is. You wouldn't 
believe he's two years younger'n me. But he is. An' you 
wouldn't think that he uster be as much stronger than me 
as I am than him now. But he was, just the same. It 
gets me how a big strapping giant like he uster be, could 
ever get into the wretched shape he's in, and a little ailin' 
chap like me ever get into the shape I'm in today. Aint 
a man in the country as can do a better day's work'n me. 
I'm sixty-one and there's no bragging is there, boys?" 

The "boys" murmured a unanimous assent. Henry re- 
moved his pipe again, spat straight through the open stove 
door into the fire and began again. 

"I guess I may as well tell you what I was telling Jim 
Dugren, how I just about owe my bein' here to Jake. It 
was down in the wilderness campaign in '64. We'd been 
fighting back an' forth in the bush an' swamps for weeks, 
an' I was just about played out with it all, — fever, chills, 
an' fighting, an' what not. One day we'd been lyin' in the 
trenches an' water until I was near dead. I guess I'd 'a' 
giv' up if it hadn't been for Jake. He was next to me an' 
was takin' it all as cool an' pleasant as a clam. Hey, there, 
if that isn't him now! How are you, Jake! Come in an' 
draw up your chair! Lots o' room for another." 

A bent old man had opened the door a little and slipped 
through from the outside. He approached the stove almost 
timidly, feebly shaking the snow from his worn old overcoat 
and rubbing his ears. He returned the greetings of the 
circle. Someone drew up a chair for him and he sat down 
next to Dane, rubbing his knotted hands. 

"Well, Jake, how's yourself?" Henry beamed on him. 
"An' how's the old woman nowadays? Same's ever?" 

"Oh, I guess so. Hen. The old woman's as cheery as 
ever, don't complain nor nothin', but I'm most chilled to 
the bone." 

"You're only half dressed, man. Why the dickens don't 
you get you some warmer clothes?" Henry asked as he 

"I — oh, — I don't know as I can. I don't seem to get 
the money to spare, an' I dunno as I oughter 'til " 

"Aint you got the old woman her shawl yet?" 
"N — no, not just yet. Purty soon, though." 

"That's what you've said the last six months, Jake. 
You've talked shawl the last year, an' now here 'tis she 
a-needing it if she ever does, an' you a-needing it a sight 

12 The M. A, C. Literary Monthly 

"It's hard, somehow, Hen, to get enough for it, a-tween 
payin' for coal an' rent an' to hve. It takes the money." 

"You bet, Jake. Say!" as he reached into his pocket 
and drew out a coin. "Put that into the old woman's fund 
for my sake." He offered a half-dollar. 

"No, Hen, thanks just the same, but I'm a-goin' to earn 
this for her." The old man was too proud to accept any- 
thing hinting of charity. 

"I say. Hen, how about that story of you 'n' Jake? 
You was goin' to tell us something about you an' him in the 
war times." Someone in the circle spoke. 

"Sure, talk of the devil and up he comes, as we have 
seen here. Jake, I was tellin' them about how you treated 
me that day down in the Wilderness. Let me see, we'd 
been in the trenches all the day an' I was all petered out. 
And when the relief came up I was too sick to go to the rear. 
Jake, he says to me, 'Hang on old chap, an' I'll see what 
I can do for you.' And a bit later he comes up with a tin 
bowl of stewed beans and peas and some beef broth. They'd 
been out foraging an' the company got a treat that they 
•didn't get once in months. Jake made me eat it all, an' 
I tell you it was the bracer that put me on my feet. Nothing 
ever tasted so good as that stuff. An' I found out after- 
wards that Jake didn't save any for himself. He gave all 
his to me. An' you went off an' cried about it, didn't you, 
Jake, old chap?" And he slapped the old man's knees 
a resounding slap. The latter nodded with a sort of sheepish 

The talk rambled off to other things. 

Soon Twomey rose and started slowly for the door as 
if unwillingly. 

"Not goin' out again into this storm, be you, Jake?" 

"Yes, I got to. Got to do an errand for Doc Butler." 

"Hold on there. How many errands you gettin' now-a- 
days. Say, by the way, what kind of a shawl you got your 
eye on for the old woman?" 

"That five-dollar one in Kidder's window." 

"Maybe you come around to Keene's tomorrow when 
I'm painting an' I can give you an errand at the shop here." 

"Thanks, Hen, I'll see." And the snow swirled in as 
the door sprang open and slowly closed. 

The old man went his way, patiently plodding through 
the cold and snow day by day, picking up his dimes and 
occasional quarters by doing errands wherever he could find 
them to do. The little hoard grew discouragingly slowly. 
Now it looked as if another week would see it the full five 

The Old Woman s Shawl ij 

dollars. Errands were plenty and paid well. Again it grew 
smaller. Reverses were met. No one wanted errands done, 
no snow shoveled, no parcels carried. Or, something had 
to be bought to support the life of the old couple. 

After one particularly discouraging week Jake went 
around to Henry's shop in hopes that it might be open and 
he could go in and warm himself. The front door was locked. 
He was about to turn away when he thought he smelled 
smoke. A second thought, and he was sure of it. And it 
was the smoke of burning paint. Then a faint crackle of 
flames reached his excited ears. The shop was on fire! 

"Fire! Fire! he cried feebly, as he ran back around 
the building to where he thought he could get a timber and 
break the windows there. But no. Everything was frozen 
solid after the rain and freeze of the second day before. So 
he attacked the glass with his bare hands. It broke with 
a crash. Smoke poured out and he could see a dull red glare 
under it. He scrambled through the opening, cutting his 
hands and legs painfully on the jagged fragments in the 
sash. But he did not notice. He seized a pail, ran to the 
faucet and turned on the water. He hastened as he had not 
been able to do for years. The smoke choked him. He 
could not half see for the tears in his eyes. How slowly 
that pail filled itself! How the fire seemed to gain in spite 
of his efforts! Why did not someone hear his cries and 
come to help ? His efforts were beginning to slacken from 
exhaustion so soon! He was about ready to drop, but he 
kept feverishly at work. He was crying with pain and 
grief. Suddenly the fire seemed to rise around him and 
the building to crash in on him! 

Jake opened his eyes and tried to spring up. A cry 
was on his lips. 

"You lay still, Jake. It's all right. You saved the 
shop. Much as ever I saved you, though, you old hearty!" 
Henry forced him back onto his pillow. 

Dr. Butler came to the head of the bed and laid his 
professional hand on the injured man's forehead. 

"You did well, Jake. You're coming on finely. Just 
take it easy." 

Jake began to feel his bums and cuts. His honest old 
mind began to think of the bill the doctor would have. It 
was half to himself he murmured brokenly, "And there goes 
the old woman's shawl money. Another ten cents would 
have just made it." 

"Come on, Jake," spoke Henry, "you quit your worryin' 
an' cryin.' I've fixed it all up with the doctor and here's 
the old woman. She wants to show you that new shawl 
she's got." 

®Ifp M. A. 01. IGttfrarg iHnntljlg 

LOUIS BRANDT, '10, Editor-in-Chief 



Business Manager 

The subscription price of this magazine is $1.00 a year. Single 
■ copies, 15 cents. 

Contributions are earnestly solicited from all undergraduates. 
All contributions should be addressed to the Editor of The M. A. C. 
Literary Magazine, and should be in his hands before the 12th day 
of the month. 

Entered as Second-class Matter, Feb. 1, 1910, at the Post Office, 
Amherst, Mass. 


WE are glad to submit to you this first issue of The 
M. A. C. Literary Monthly. We are here by your 
consent and by your judgment of good things. We 
have your financial support, and what we crave now 
is your indulgence and sympathy while we are yet in an 
embryonic state. That you will give us what we desire we 
do not doubt. 

The magazine at present is small. We have not the 
financial support of many pages of "ads." Depending for 
the remainder of this year almost entirely upon subscriptions, 
we preferred to start small. Better a small beginning, un- 
hampered, than a large beginning struggling 'neath the 
weight of debt. It will be our earnest endeavor to make 
this magazine representative of the literary side of our 
college interests, and a credit to our Alma Mater. We are 
small now,— but watch us grow! 


HAT should be the end of this magazine? What 
the acme of our endeavors? To discuss the ques- 
tions of a more ethical nature which directly concern 
you and me, to keep before us the ideals which 

govern our actions, to awaken and increase a taste for things 

Editorials 75 

beautiful, to arouse a greater interest in matters literary, 
and to help in our way to build up a stronger feeling of 
fellowship among us all. 

HE problem comes before us: What sort of material 
shall constitute our literary magazine ? Shall we 
discuss at length topics which are before the public 
eye, or shall the magazine be composed largely of 
fiction ? It seems to us that the former should have no 
place in our Lit except as we can draw valuable lessons from 
them. Purely plot stories will have their place, for worthy 
endeavor in this line is very commendable. We all are much 
interested in the work of our college mates, even though 
we are aware that there are a number of professionals in the 
field who can furnish us in the popular magazines more 
interesting matter. But the material which is going to 
appeal to us most, — the material which will be of most good 
to us, will be those articles, essays, or stories which shall 
deal with the problems of college life, with character, with 
culture, with ideals, with the appreciation of things beautiful, 
with the development of manhood, and with training for the 
active life which is to come. 

HE board at present consists of five members. Fu- 
ture members will be chosen by the board. Elec- 
tions will be made according to the literary ability 
of the candidate and the interest he has shown in 


YOU are all urged to send in contributions, which 
should be signed. Do not be discouraged if your 
contribution is not printed immediately. If ac- 
cepted it may possibly be filed for a future date. 
In any case your endeavor has been a real help to you, 
and your next effort may be a "first rater." 

A dvertisemen t 







DEDEL'S Drug Store, 



M, A. (H. Ctt^rary iiotttJilg 

Vol. I March, 19 io No. 2 

5;y L^ow Terry 

Girl's soprano is singing and ringing on high: 
"Only heaven to-day, is more happy than I — 

Sweeter, sweeter, my song than the cooing of dove 
And my heart overflows, so happy am I, 

For my dreams have come true, with the coming of love." 

And a deep-chested bass rolls, and calls in reply: 

"Only sunshine to-day, gleams more happy than I — 

Stronger, freer, my stroke, than the flight of a swan, 
And my breast overfills, when my love is so nigh. 

And I sing like a lark with the coming of dawn." 

With a swing and a ring, lilts the girl her reply: 
"Boat skims like a bird over lake blue as sky. 

And a hot breath of wind plays with ringlets of hair. 
Sobs well in my breast, I'm so happy, I cry. 

And from depths of my heart bursts the song on clear air. " 

And the voice of the youth thrills and fills the deep sky : 
"The swift chasing clouds — they are free, they are high. 
Bums the hot sun my arms, as I bend the strong oar. 
And the glad southern wind throws spray in my eye. 
Singing sweet songs of youth, strife and love's golden 

1 8 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

By Albert W. Dodge 

U' IP from the meadow, white with the slender Jacob's 
ladder, floated the rythmic clink, clank of a rifle 
m^ touching up the shining edge of a scythe. To the 
^^^ 1 boy, lying on his back beneath a straggling apple 
tree up on the hillside, it came mingled with the hum of 
the earth pulsating under the July sun. He rolled over 
on his side and gazed down across the field, brown from 
recent cutting, past the red house tucked in beside the row 
of huge spruces, by the weather-beaten bam, to the long 
stretch of meadow, where two men followed each other in 
parallel courses, laying the coarse, rank grass to the left 
in long swaths. As he remembered his father's words of 
the morning, something like a sob came to his lips, choking 
him for the moment. 

Yes, it was true. The old homestead was to be sold. 
It was to go like the rest of the old country estates to satisfy 
the greed of some rich man, who would only gloat over the 
broad acres, caring nothing for its old traditions and stories. 
The rambling old house would be changed and strange chil- 
dren would play under the spruces. He had watched the 
other farms -change hands, but that this farm should be 
sold — the home where he was bom, as was his father and 
grandfathers for generations — that the broad acres of com 
land and grass land, received ages ago by will from the 
Indians should go, seemed to render him helpless in sorrow. 
He felt very rebellious as he saw the cows winding up 
from the swamp, following each other in single file to the 
bars. Soon it would be time for he and Shep to marshal 
them for the last time down the old cow lane to the bam. 
At present, Shep was leaping vigorously at a red squirrel 
over on Sandy Knoll, and the sound of his barking came 
faintly to his master's ears. The boy knew that the squirrel 
was hanging head down from the tree trunk, just out of 
reach, profanely and excitedly scolding away at the dog 
below. The squirrel and he were old friends, for had'nt 
they robbed birds' nests together ? 

Bear Knoll, gay with waving com, lay between, and 
the boy's eyes glistened as he remembered the old story of 
how it got its name. The trap that had captured the bear, 

The Old Homestead ig 

as he came to the com field by night, was still in the attic, 
and the boy had often held it in his lap, forming strange 
stories from its dents and stains. One day, it had caught 
his brother by the hand, and the huge teeth had left its 
scars in many places. 

The slanting rays of the sun crept in under the tree, 
and he changed his position, until he sat with his back against 
the gnarled trunk, gazing with half-shut eyes out over the 
valley which lay between him and the hills that marked 
off the horizon over in Topsfield. The dark green of tower- 
ing pines dotted the swamp here and there, marking the 
tiny islands where the wild grapes grew. To the left. Idle- 
wood Lake was lying, its sparkling blue waters hidden by 
the hills, which seemed to be gathering closely around it. 
To the right, past Vineyard Hill, with its nut trees and wild 
apples, the brush-covered slopes of the Commons rose. Scat- 
tered here and there among these hills and valleys so fam- 
iliar to the lad, were the houses that commanded the great 
estates lying around them. There he had hunted and picked 
blueberries, there he had learned to love and study Nature. 
Tomorrow he was to go to the city to live with his grand- 

"Children are such a bother when you're moving," his 
aunt had said. 

"When I'm a man, when I'm a man." The thought 
ran rioting through his head. He lay still, with unseeing 
eyes, staring at the fleecy clouds, set like huge pearls in the 
blue skies overhead, thinking of the future that seemed so 
mysteriously to promise him wealth. He would return 
sometime, somehow, and force the owner to accept a vast 
sum for the farm, and then it would never be sold again, 
never ! 

A woodchuck crept out of his hole, hardly two hundred 
feet away, and the boy watched him dreamingly, as he 
gathered in the grass with his little handlike paws, and com- 
menced his afternoon meal. Over on Sandy Knoll, Shep 
had ceased his barking, and the squirrel had gone about 
his business of a trouble maker. The lad knew that the 
collie was making his nightly rounds of the woodchuck holes, 
and that soon the one near him would have its peace dis- 
turbed. The watching lad was not disappointed. Shep 
appeared, crawling inch by inch through the short June 
grass, his tail waving and eyes glistening with excitement. 
Then came the rush — with the usual result of the wood- 
chuck winning by a foot, and the dog venting his rage and 
disappointment in a furious attack on the hole. 

20 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

The boy whistled, and the dog came sheepishly over 
to nestle his cold, wet nose in the outstretched hand, and 
hear the words of scolding and advice on the art of catching 
woodchucks. Then, holding the dog's head between his two 
hands, he poured out his trouble to those brown eyes that 
gazed up so understandingly into his. 

Down in the meadow, the mowers had crossed over for 
the last swath, that would bring them back nearly to the 
bam. The cows lowed now and then, as they stood b}^ 
the bars calmly chewing their cud. Soon the men would 
be coming up to do the chores and his mother would carry 
the two shining milk pails down to them and bring back 
the foaming pitcher of warm milk for the supper. Huckle- 
berry pie and milk — he knew what that meant. 

Whistling to Shep, he got up slowly, and with a heavy 
heart, started to round up the cows. Stumbling over the 
brown, hard turf of the pasture, he was silent to the frolic- 
ing of the dog, which ran here and there, gathering the cows 
to follow them, as they wound in single file down the old 
lane. For the last time, he climbed the ladder to the mow 
of English hay, throwing down the usual amount for the 
animals and then the rank meadow hay for the bedding. 
His chores finished, he watched the men as they milked, 
bedded the horses, and finished the chores at the bam. 

As he went up towards the house, he looked up at Vine- 
yard, above which towered white castles of fleecy clouds, 
glowing with the red and crimson of the setting sun. Shad- 
ows were filling the valley, and as they darkened, the gloom 
seemed to steal over the lad. In the years that he had spent 
there, he had learned to love the farm, and as he faced now 
for the first time a new world, he felt vaguely rebellious 
against something — he knew not what. The sun sank behind 
the clouds, which rolled in fantastic shapes, like mountains 
lined with golden valleys. He stopped for a moment and 
watched, while the rolling valleys and crags changed to 
crimson and faded to gold and purple, and in the constant 
shifting of the scene, there came to him at last his first reali- 
zation of the changes that were to come into his own life. 
Turning for a last look at the broad farm that was going 
out of his life forever, silently he entered the house. 

Reminiscences 21 

By Isaburi JVagai. 

T was a day in April, fifteen years ago, and it was 
as mild as today. The blue sky was so deep and 
exquisite that even Southern Italy's might be sur- 
passed. The lark sang in the sky, the field shone with 
joy. Green barley and golden rape extended from valley 
to valley. How we were blessed in the bosom of Nature, 
picking the violets and dandelions, listening to the song of 
frogs by the brook. The shadows moved on the hillside, 
yet we did not care. 

Evening came and then her mother searched us out in 
the field. When we reached the gate of her house, I remem- 
ber the curfew from the distant temple tolling the Nirvana 
of the day, and cherry blossoms scattered like snow in the 

It was a day in July. The air was dead and hot. The 
blazing summer sun shone upon the old castle tower of the 
feudal lord whom our fathers and grandfathers had served 
with sword and armor. The tiles of "tenshu" glittered 
like silver scales, and lizards were passing swiftly along the 
heated stone walls whose air bleached rough surfaces were 
mantled with ivy. But, oh, how lovely was the shade of 
the pine under which we sat! The breeze from the old 
moat caressed our faces and tangled her stray locks. We 
gazed at the lilies upon the mirror-like surface of the water 
and we dreamed a dream of youth. 

An autumn day is silent and sullen. The wings of night 
are falling. A rosy glimmer tints the distant hill top — a 
vestige of a parting day. 

So it was, the eve when I left the home far away. 

Father, mother, friends, neighbors and she, all greeted 
me and blessed me at the end of the village where the small 
country railroad station stood. Why were her eyes not as 
bright as usual? Nay, dimmed with tears? 

The night is cold. The wind is blowing through the 
bushes and trees. There are no leaves on the trees. Quails 
in the distance whistle with a melancholy sound. I absently 

22 The M, A. C. Literary Monthly 

look at the wall. My head is tired. My heart leaps! Here 
a college town in New England, — beautiful and quiet, — New 
York and Chicago, as noisy and busy as can be, — the prairie, 
the Rockies and the Ocean. Yonder Mt. Fuji and my loved 
home and, — her smiling face. 

By Isaac Coleman 

TlOO LATE," I gasped, as the gates at the ferry station 
of the B. R. B. & L. R. R. slowly swung together, 
^^S just as I was about to dash on board the boat. I 
^'^^ » stood peering through the gates at the boat I had 
so narrowly missed, as it swung around, and headed for the 
other side. Soon its shadowy outlines disappeared in the 
blackness of the night, and I was unable to distinguish its 
lights from those of the various crafts anchored in the har- 
bor, whose lights danced and gleamed in the inky waters, 
mingling with the reflections of the stars above. I was in 
no mood to enjoy the view of Boston harbor at midnight, 
so made my way to the smoking room. 

Entering the room, I singled out a seat near several 
men, who evidently were taking advantage of the protec- 
tion which the room offered them from the bitter cold night 
air. The men had probably never met before, yet they were 
discussing their adventures and escapades as knights of the 
road as if they had known each other for years. Their 
conversation rather interested me, and glad of the oppor- 
tunity to lessen the monotony of a two hours' wait, I 
joined the group. During a lull in the conversation, one 
of the men, who perhaps had noticed my interest, turned 
towards me and said, "Pretty tough to be down and out, 
don't you think so!" 

"I should say so," I replied, not unwilling to get into 
conversation with the man. "Still, one doesn't mind knock- 
ing about during a vacation. Just think of the stories one 
could have for his classmates when he returns to college." 

Flunked Out 2j 

To my surprise, he leaned forward, grasped my arm, 
and said, "Young man, beware of classmates." 

The peculiar emphasis which he laid upon the word, 
together with his bitter and mirthless smile, secured my 
entire attention at once. He drew me to /a seat away from 
the others, and sat down at my side. 

"Once I was in college," he began in a calm voice. 
"I applied myself to study, and made a good record. I 
made many acquaintances and a few intimate friends. The 
mid years I passed with flying colors. About this time, 
I became intimate with more fellows, who made it a practice 
to drop into my room almost every evening. At first I did 
not like it, for they prevented me from studying; but they 
seemed pretty good chaps and I soon began to look forward 
to their coming. They used to ridicule what they called 
my principles. I was particularly opposed to drinking 
intoxicants, but they used to tell me that I would not be 
a man until I took a glass or two. I used to laugh at them, 
confident of my own strength to resist any temptation. 

"One Saturday night we were celebrating a football 
victory, and in some way, I found myself in a barroom with 
the boys. Before I knew what they were about, they had 
ordered some whiskey for me too. I endeavored to refuse 
to drink, offering my whiskey to another, but this called 
forth such a string of jeers and taunts, that I drank the 
stuff. After that night, I drank occasionally; but as time 
went on, I drank more often. I though I could control 
my appetite, and frequently preached against the fellow who 
did not know when he had enough." 

"Poor fool that I was, I began to neglect my studies 
and to find enjoyment in those trips which had been so 
abhorrent to me earlier. I did not make a creditable record 
the second semester, but I managed to get through." 

"The following year saw me back as a soph, and in 
with the same crowd of fellows. I spent a great deal of time 
in the hotels and barrooms and earned the nickname of 
"Sport." I just barely got by the mid years, and that 
brought me to my senses. I resolved to turn over a new 
leaf and give up drinking. My friends would not hear of 
me leaving their circle, and ridiculed my resolutions. After 
holding out against them for some time, the craving for 
drink became so strong, that I went back to dissipation 
and drinking. Studies were forgotten, notices of low stand- 
ing from the dean's office were ignored. Of course, when 
the exams came around, I was unprepared and could see 
nothing but failure ahead of me. I bitterly repented my 

24 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

actions, but of course, it was too late. Again my class- 
mates came to my help. They let me take some notes on 
the exams, which they had prepared. I resolved to use 
them, vowing that if I passed, I would reform. I had never 
cheated at an exam before, and I was so clumsy in using the 
notes, that I was caught. I was expelled. My friends 
deserted me, and my parents died, their death hastened 
by my disgrace." 

'I secured a job in New York, but one of my former 
friends exposed me to my employer, and I was discharged. 
I had no recommendations, and was unable to secure any 
other work. The girl I had hoped to make my wife married 
another. The final blow was too much for me, and I gave 
up. I began to drift from one town to another, from bad 
to worse, until now I am homeless, friendless, penniless." 

The muscles of the man's face became tense, and his 
jaws set, while an expression so full of hate appeared in 
his bleary eyes, that I involuntarily shrank away from 
him. The man's voice died down to almost a whisper, as 
he finished his story. His head sank on his breast, and 
he seemed lost in the memories of the past. 

Suddenly a low whistle sounded in the room. The man 
sprang up, and in company with the others, dashed for 
the door, just as an officer came into the room. 

"If I catch any of you around here again," the officer 
shouted after the hurrying men, "I'll lock you up." "Those 
fellows have been hanging around here for over a week," 
the officer continued, turning to me. Guess you'd better 
hustle on board if you want to get on the other side tonight." 

W^t K%Xn iJItrror 

By Raymond J. Fisk 

WiE were lost! 
Ever since crossing the brook I had suspected 
1^^ it. All day we had been toiling through the jungle, 
^^^ ^ sometimes gaining several yards with slight exertion, 
again winning but a few feet after great labor. 

Now the forest had become wilder than ever. The trail 
was but a trace, and I was often at a loss where the guide 
appeared so confident. 

The Axtec Mirror 2^ 

We were lost. Pedro acknowledged it. I could not 
blame him, but two questions demanded answer: it was late 
in the afternoon and we must make preparations for the 
night, and the impending storm necessitated shelter. 

A particularly oburate bit of underbrush, yielding at 
last to my machete, disclosed a huge stone, grotesquely 
carved into the semblance of a human form. 

"Tezcatlipoca!" exclaimed Pedro, groveling before it; 
for though a staunch parishioner of the padre he was a super- 
stitious descendant of the Aztecs. 

"Do you know where we are?" 

"Si, Senor, I think so. Cozumel's palace should be on 
this mound on our right." 

A dilapidated flight of steps led up the mound, evi- 
dently artificial. Upon its level summit a group of buildings 
surrounded an open court. Low, thick walled, with roofs — - 
originally of thatch — long since fallen in, they gave dismal, 
mute and accurate testimony to Spanish occupancy of the 
country. Once, they had been the abode of Indian kings; 
now huge trees flourished in apartments where monarchs 
had ruled in barbaric splendor. 

One building, perhaps twent}^ feet square and nearly 
as high, boasted the remains of a stone roof. This we made 
our habitation and prepared for the night and the coming 

Although flat-roofed without, within, the apartment 
became a truncated pyramid. Its only ornament was a 
replica of the idol that had exacted homage from Pedro. 

A fire improved the place immensely. After a frugal 
supper of crackers and hot chocolate we gathered a supply 
of firewood and settled ourselves for the night. 

A few shimmering zephyrs, some stronger puffs and then 
the storm broke. With all its pent up fury it was on us. 
A staccato of falling limbs marked its violence. Once, a 
resounding crash, heard above the general uproar, told of 
the fall of some forest giant before the onslaught of the 
elements. Torrents of rain fell as only tropical rain can. 
Violence, however, proved its undoing, and soon, losing its 
fury, nothing was heard but the steady drip, drip from the 

"Cozumel died on a night like this, the day the Spaniards 
landed," remarked Pedro, half aloud, half to himself. "Tez- 
catlipoca appeared to him that night and foretold the ruin 
of this palace and the downfall of his people." 

The fire, throwing into strange relief the fantastic features 
of Tezcatlipoca, the idol on the western wall, I was struck 

26 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

by a fixity of his expression as though he were watching 
something before him. Compelled by the force of his gaze 
to follow it. I noted with surprise that it seemed to rest upon 
a metal plate let into the opposite wall. As it had escaped 
me in our hurried survey of the place before supper I inves- 
tigated it. 

It was metal, certainly, possibly bronze, but differing 
from any metal with which I was familiar by a strange, 
mottled, misty or cloud-like something that ran through it, 
defying identification. Over it were scattered blood-like 
particles, or perhaps they were rust spots. 

How populous this deserted ruin must have been, I 
thought. How often had the shout of the banqueting nobles 
echoed through these silent corridors. 

But tonight silence reigned, broken only by the falling 
drops without. Could this mute idol but speak how much 
he could tell me. 

Musing thus, linking together fact and fancy, I was 
startled by observing a movement in the metal plate. It 
seemed to be reflecting scenes enacted in remote portions of 
the ruin. The cloud-like mists were in motion, dark, indis- 
tinct bodies appeared beneath them, over which swarmed 
the bloody particles. The picture was vague and indistinct, 
but becoming clearer and more definite in outline, its sig- 
nificance dawned upon me. Not in a remote part of the 
ruin was the scene enacted, but in a remote epoch of time. 

The twentieth century was forgotten, the fifteenth was 
supreme. Tezcatlipoca was gazing upon history in the mak- 
ing — history , of a people long since forgotten. Pedro's heavy 
breathing told of his unconsciousness. I alone, a profane 
intruder, witnessed this revelation to the pagan diety. 

The cloud-like objects were sails, the dark, indistinct 
bodies were vessels, and the mist spots, men. Three vessels 
were anchored off the shore. Boats filled with men left 
the vessels, and landed upon the beach. The royal banner 
of Spain appeared, and a kneeling throng of mail-clad figures 
proclaim the sovereignty of Ferdinand and Isabella in the 
heathen land. The white man had come. The Spaniard 
had landed. 

The scene dissolved. The mists and clouds again were 
busy, the blood-like particles scampered hither and yon. 
The noon-day sun shone on the pagan city. Stone buildings 
were everywhere seen. Here and there, pyramidal struc- 
tures towered above the rest and terminated in a thin stream 
of smoke, which marked the temples to the heathen gods. 
Before the palace, a multitude had gathered. A trumpet 

The Aztec Mirror 2^ 

hushed the noisy babbUngs of the people. Richly capari- 
soned steeds, dented but shining armour glistened in the sun. 
The procession halted and their leader rode forth alone. 
A solitary figure, clothed with eastern magnificence, advanced 
toward the lone horseman. Cortes and Montezuma had 

Tezcatlipoca's muscles quivered, a pale light was in his 

It is night. A storm is raging. Above, the light- 
ning flashes told of battling gods. Torrents of rain hurtle 
themselves upon the earth. Beneath, men are joined in 
mortal combat. The Spaniards are retreating along a 
causeway, pursued by the Indians. On each side, stretches 
the dark waters of the lake, dotted by canoes filled with the 
enemy. A cannon's roar marks the annihilation of scores 
of the Indians, but others press forward. A mounted knight 
with sword and battle axe is engaged with countless natives 
with their short sword and deadly maquahuilt, the club with 
the glass-like teeth. A fortunate blow, and a horse goes 
down, hurling his rider to the earth. Encumbered by his 
armour, he receives no mercy at the hands of the light armed 
native. Perhaps death in the lake ends it, or he is saved 
for sacrifice. A few broken detachments escape, but it is 
Montezuma's might against a handful of Europeans. The 
natives have conquered. The "Noche Triste" has passed 
into history. 

In rapid succession, now the pictures appear upon the 
magic plate. 

The Spaniards are back, Montezuma is a prisoner, the 
pagan temples smoke with the flames of their own destruc- 
tion, the heathen gods are despoiled of their golden orna- 
ments and their vestments of precious stones repose in the 
coffers of the invaders. Montezuma, entreating his sub- 
jects to yield, is slain by an arrow. The Aztecs' power 
is broken. 

A conquistador rides abroad, inspecting his estate. A 
group of natives are laboring in the fields — shackles impede 
their movements. One, lagging behind the rest, attracts 
the Spaniard's attention. Raising his lash, he brings it down 
across his shoulders. 

A groan bursts from the idol. 

Naught but the steady dropping from the trees breaks 
the silence. 

28 The M. A. C. Liter ay Monthly 

By Royal N. Hallowell 


HAT'S the best thing in the world!" By way of 
answer, the fluffy cushions in the comer seat swam 
up to meet highbrow's head, and dimpled in green 
and white and purple and gold about him, as he lay. 

"I ought to be up. You, Jack, switch out that light; 
it shines in my eyes. Yes, I tell you, I ought to be up; 
but switch away the light. I worked today — worked." 

"Stay awhile. Jack. Softly! Close the door with a 
bang, confound you! He's gone." 

" — The best thing in the world? Let me pull that 
red canoe girl pillow under my head ; Nell sent it from Auburn- 
dale — Nell, my love, is like a red, red rose — that's not non- 
sense — ^no, neither rot nor nonsense; that's red wine." 

"Tonight, old fellow, you may dream a very little, but 
after tonight, not again. For it has come at the end of four 
years. Only a few days more to the end. One fact remem- 
bered, and a thousand forgot, but be proud of your treacher- 
ous, uncertain old head, since it has learned, at least, to think. 
Only a few days — and then the beginning — no sham this 
time and pretence of battle — Life itself — God help you on 
to meet it." 

"You, old fellow, have been many kinds of a fool, and 
you are a few kinds, even now. Four years back — three 
years back — ^you were, indeed, a fool. You were a child 
and, from a man's standpoint, a child is a fool. Your mind 
was like putty^ — plastic, it was moulded entirely and always 
by the flinty, mature influences about it. Do you recall 
when first you began to cease being a fool and began to 
be a man ? That was two years ago ; you listened to the 
words of a man of mighty influence and profound philosophy, 
who sought to establish the truth of his thought. And 
you— little, timid, unadvised boy — ^in your own mind and 
soul silently disagreed; for all the processes of your reason- 
ing, all the processes of your imagination and intuition urged 
you to disagree and to oppose to his, your own constructive 
idea, although in the light of his mature experience, your 
presumption seemed as blasphemy before the bar of Truth. 

The Senior Meditates 2<^ 

But, in the end, the judgment of your elder was wrong, 
and yours proved right. Then you saw that you, too, might 
construct and create; you saw what was the man's part 
and there began to play it. That was the great mental 
crisis of your life. " 

"And directly upon the first, came a second great crisis. 
You had always been a good child fool or a wicked child 
fool, according to your promptings of fear or fancy. But, 
one day you said: 'I am now my own keeper; I will, here- 
after, be willing to judge my well doings and ill doings by 
the standards which God has ordered and which men have 
proclaimed!' That was again the man's part. And, there- 
after, as you looked about upon the world, into the blue 
sky, whose depths and mysteries you could not fathom; 
then upon the earth at your feet, at the grass and the 
flowers in their embodiment of the mystery of life, you 
began to come to a full realization of the man's part and 
said: 'I would not wish to be a child fool again.' " 

"There, smile again, you upper part of my anatomy 
called my face! If I rubbed you with the palms of my hands 
and made you flat and smooth, you would wrinkle and 
smile again, and again. Smile with the joy of your secret — 
the best thing in the world. But your secret is mine, I 
gave it to you and you are the evidence of it. Now, let 
me say once more, just for the joy of saying it and knowing 
it: 'Old fellow, you have discovered the best thing in all 
the world — anew and in its entirety! Once, you saw it 
in the light of your mother's eyes and felt it in the clasp 
of your father's hand. But today, the fullness if it you 
see in one other's eyes, whose name you speak reverently 
and tenderly and passionately. Old fellow, you're not worthy 
to touch her hand; yet she gives you all.' " 

"No, you don't want to lie here and dream. Realities 
are more glorious than dreams. Today you can begin a 
life race and win! Life's mountains you can brush away; 
its forests and waste places you can cross; its deep streams 
you can ford; its militant hosts you can conquer — for her!" 

"Old fellow, your head is hot. Rest for a moment, 
only, till the fever is out of your blood. Then arrange 
these pillows prettily; how well their colors blend. Leave 
them there for some tired head — for some child fool to rest 
on. Ah, the wonder and joy of the man's part!" 

All true happiness, as all that is truly beautiful, can 
only result from order. 

®ljf M. A. (E- IGtterarg Unntlflg 

LOUIS BRANDT, '10, Editor-in-Chief 



Business Manager 

The subscription price of this magazine is $1.00 a year. Single 
copies, 15 cents. 

Contributions are earnestly solicited from all tindergraduates. 
All contributions should be addressed to the Editor of The M. A. C. 
Literary Magazine, and should be in his hands before the 12th day 
of the month. 

Entered as Second-class Matter, Feb. 1, 1910, at the Post Office, 
Amherst, Mass. 


THE welcome given to the first issue of the Lit repaid 
the Board for its efforts in organizing and producing 
it. We feel assured that the new institution will 
prove a valuable asset to our college activities, and, 
if properly handled, will attain a prominent place in this 

The Board alone cannot make it a success, however. 
We need the co-operation of every man who has any ability 
to write. This is your magazine, and you should need no 
invitation to make the most of it. 

H< sj: >!« H= >|s H^ 

The large attendance at the senior play shows the 
interest which the students and faculty and townspeople 
have for dramatic endeavors. The only plays put on in the 
past few years by this college have been staged through the 
efforts of the class of 1910. What they have done can be 
done again, but it seems to us that the stimulus to pay 
off certain class debts should not be the motive for putting 
on plays. There should be a college dramatic association 
which can work up plays of high character and put them on 
for the sake of their educational value. Such an organization 

Editorials ji 

can draw from the entire student body for its talent, and 
with a Hve management behind it can book the plays in a 
number of cities. 

Dramatics offer a very delightful field for many who 
do not take part in athletics or other strenuous forms of 
college activity, and it oft'ers as much opportunity for train- 
ing of the mind as does any other part of college life. As a 
means for getting in touch with people and for making the 
college better known, it is unsurpassed. 

A short time ago a dramatic association was formed, 
but it is not probable that any attempt will be made to put 
on a play this season. A course in dramatics under the 
capable instruction of Mr. McKay will be instituted next 
year, and without doubt will be a very valuable addition to 
our curriculum. We hope that active steps will be taken 
early next fall to develop the dramatic association and make 
of it a strong feature of our college life. 

What wonder that we love our college. What wonder 
that our college puts out so many strong men and good 
citizens. I often wonder if other colleges have as many 
advantages and opportunities as we do. Granting that they 
do, I wonder how any man can spend four years within the 
halls of this college and go out into the word and be satisfied 
to take a passive part in life's work. For four years we have 
the glorious opportunity to meet men of aft'airs, men in all 
walks of life who are doing things, men who are respected 
and looked up to as the highest types of American citizen- 
ship. Always they have carried to us a note of inspiration 
and have shown us that worldly goods do not bring happi- 
ness, that happiness lies only in service to mankind. The 
more we put into life the more we get out of it, is an old 
saying, yet its truth has been impressed upon us so that we 
cannot fail to see its application in our lives and the service 
which we are to render in the world. What a stimulus these 
men are to youth just about to enter into life's battle. They 
make all barriers penetrable, all heights attainable. My 
thoughts run too swift for my pen — I must achieve results 
in this world or bow my head in shame before these, my 
my teachers. 

A dvertisemen t 







DEDEL'S Drug Store, 



M. A. CH. Ctt^rarg iiontlilg 

Vol. I April, 1910 No. 3 

S:y R. W. N. 

(Copyrighted, 1904, by the author.) 

THE time came when John Alfred was forced to give 
up his studies and leave college — forever. 
It was December when he went, and the winds 
were sweeping bitterly through the valley from the 
north, mercilessly whipping man and beast with lashes of 
icy pellets — a fit day, he told himself in rebellious anger, for 
the ending of a summer's dream; and he laughed grimly as 
he paced in the cold from end to end of the long station plat- 
form or stood looking across the snowy bridge beyond which 
he had left his life. All the afternoon and all night, the 
grey swirl of the storm beat against the frost-covered windows 
of the car, the wind yelled and howled behind the fleeing 
train; and in the pallid dawn of another bitter day, he clomb 
stiffly down at his destination. 

Hours followed before his father, in the unpainted, ram- 
shackly old farm wagon, came to take him home — it had 
not been his home for years on years — and he paced them 
away in the face of the storm's fury, and laughed as even 
youth can laugh when hell and heaven have come to seem 
all one. 

It was not a joyful meeting. His father pottered at 
the stringy harness as the young man strode down toward 
the wagon, and when the greeting could no longer be post- 
poned, came forth reluctant and shamefaced, refusing to 
meet his son's hard look as their hands came together and 
parted almost without grasping. 

They rode the four miles almost without speaking, and 
the young man helped to stable the horses before he went 
in to see his mother — no need to hurry now; she'd see enough 

j^ The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

of him from now on, God knew! The dinner was unsavory 
and tasteless, notwithstanding the more careful preparation 
of it for his coming, yet he ate voraciously and raged in- 
wardly to find himself already taking animal delight in so 
coarse a feed. There was no conversation; when reference 
was made to his college life, he cried out sharply, "None of 
that! It's dead and buried! Never speak of it again!" 
and rose quickly and left the room. 

When he returned, he had put on working clothes; and 
he went quickly out of doors. He took direction of everyT"- 
thing upon himself at once, and went out again after the rude 
supper to work at the thousand and one things he found 
awaiting someone with foresight to perceive the need of 
them and energy to do them. 

When he came in at last and sat by the kitchen fire, 
he was silent. The old folks went to bed and left him there, 
and he sat until long after midnight, thinking, mourning, 
planning. His college life and his future were dead and 
buried; but no man forgets what he has loved, though it 
be dead and buried. And there had been a girl, too — he 
had come away without so much as seeing her; what might 
have been could not be, and it was better to cut every bond 
at a blow. 

The bonds were all cut — all but those of remembrance. 

He had foreseen the outcome. Years earlier the farm 
had ceased to pay money, and begun to demand it. When 
he had urged new ways and better methods, his father, 
querulous and stubborn, had burst into childish anger against 
"book-farming;" and this was the result. When the letter 
came from home, telling that foreclosure was to begin, he 
had gone into the city to appeal to the manager of the mort- 
gage company. 

"Your father's place, and your grandfather's, eh," 
that officer hemmed, "Farmed in your grandfather's fashion, 
too." Then he looked the young man over and added: 
"If you want to save it so, why don't you go down and take 
charge yourself. We will hold off a year. If you get it 
started right, we will renew the mortgage. And that's all 
we will do." 

There was no choice — and here he was, grimly silent, he 
and his work, and there behind was what might have been — 
his true work — and the girl 

The clock struck one, struck two, and he arose to seek 
the little attic pen that henceforth should be his room. As 
he roused himself, he cursed himself and life — quietly, smil- 
ingly ; and as he passed the cracked, scarred looking-glass and 

The Singing Plow J5 

raised the dusty, oil-streaked lamp to light his face, the 
reflection showed the calmness of feature that tells of settled 
grief and settled, inexpressible despair. 

The morrow was as the yesterday had been, and the 
days that followed it showed change in nothing. He ordered 
the farm work and farm economy, toiling early, late and 
always, saving, retrenching, spending — and late at night 
sitting over the puny fire to mourn and plan. To his parents 
he said little more than what he had to say about the work; 
when neighbors, especially old acquaintances, came to the 
place to loaf and gossip, he shunned them when he could, 
spoke sharply what he must with them, and made them 
see that to him their room was better than their company. 
So he was alone at home and was left alone by others at his 
home. As time passed, he found his hours over the mid- 
night fire becoming shorter, and his grief and despair became 
more fierce and settled as he saw the sense of them decreas- 

At last spring approached. The wheat fields thawed at 
midday. Then the brant and geese began to come and 
(after a few days of picking in them and the fodder lots) 
pass on toward the north. The redbirds in the peach grove 
became restless; the number of shrill bluejays in the orchard 
grew; the crows cawed and quarreled incessantly. Gradu- 
ally, the thawing of the fields increased and the freezing 
decreased; grass on southern slopes greened; the willows 
along the slough lost the brightness of their yellow for a 
palish green that itself brightened from day to day. The 
smaller waterfowl went north, at first few and lingeringly, 
then in many flocks and quickly ; and after them, the cranes. 
He looked at these latter, moving slowly in great V's between 
him and the sun, and remembered how, a boy, he had 
listened to their crying and watched for hours the silver light 
thrown off high in the heavens by their slowly flapping wings. 
The willows and the maples blossomed, and here and there 
a violet ventured forth. But day by day, as he saw about 
him all the changes in which he has been wont to find delight, 
his bitterness but grew. 

The early spring was wet, and April warmth was 
hastening life when he got into the fields to plow. The 
breaking had been done the fall before, and he started culti- 
vator plows to stir the ground; his father in one field, he in 
another. The peach and the plum trees had begun to bloom. 

The gentle warmth became a gentle heat, and flinging 
by the ragged overcoat he had worn, John Alfred rode back 
and forth across the field, drawing with each furrow nearer 

j6 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

the top of the long slope. He came upon it at last and, 
looking across the land thus brought under view, uttered 
a sudden exclamation. 

The slough along the border of his fields was green and 
soft with willow foliage up to the v&ry foot of the slopes 
beyond; and on these slopes great orchards of peach and 
of plum trees were creamy pink and pure white, and delicate 
tints of infinite variation between these two, against a dark 
background of shade-tree foliage scarce unfolded. His team 
stopped, and he let it stand until he satisfied his gaze upon 
the blossomed mounds. The sun shone hot. A hawk 
wheeled all above him. But his momentary forgetfulness 
passed and he started his horses quickly — -and immediately, 
the plow began to sing. 

The sound came from the metal work from which the 
beams were swung; was not from the griding of the irons, 
but in the irons themselves. It was monotonous, but not 
unpleasant. At times it was broken, at times long sustained; 
sometimes it ceased for but a moment; sometimes for all 
the length of the field; now it sank into a low vibration, now 
swelled into a clear tone that swept across the farm ; and there 
was in it the seeming of a content subdued yet permanent. 
Later, when he thought of this, he thought he must have 
imagined so; but others heard the singing and found the 
same seeming in it. 

Through all the afternoon the plow sang; and Alfred 
listened, and looked across to the blossomed slopes, and 
breathed the odors from them. That night, as he passed 
the cracked old looking-glass and glanced into it, he stopped 
suddenly to scan his features. Something was missing from 
that he had seen there every night before for months. And 
in his room he sank back upon his pillow sighing and fell 
into quiet sleep. 

In the morning the plow was silent, but when the da}^ 
had warmed, it sang again till night. By the third morning, 
he had come to look forward to the beginning of its song. 
So days passed. On those when he did not use the plow 
or it did not sing, he was more restless, sharp, impatient; 
but in place of the silent bitterness was quick anger and 
acrimonious retort. 

The blossoms on the slopes withered and the trees 
showed as acres of light green. The plovers had come and 
were gone, and the great flocks of blackbirds were broken 
up into nesting pairs. The com came up, and then began 
the unbroken weeks of cultivating it. 

And the plow sang. Earlier and earlier in the morning 

The Singing Plow j/ 

it began, as the days became hotter; more and more it sus- 
tained a steady note; and riding on it from morning until 
night, John Alfred found that more and more his thoughts 
went out from himself as he listened and busied themselves 
with the world that was without him. 

The blue prairie lilies, the wild-onion flowers, the johnny- 
jump-ups; the grass, and wheat, and com; the rabbits hop- 
ping by under the hedges; the squalling catbirds, in the 
branches; the yellow, flitting flax-birds; the thrushes, the 
crows, the hawks; the cattle in the pastures; the drifting 
clouds, the playing of sun and shadow, — as the plow sang, 
he began to notice them, to watch them, to love them for 
themselves. His father was surprised one day to hear a 
burst of song from him. The night of that same day, when 
all the chores were done, the young man sat down with a 
book, the first time since his homecoming; and he fell asleep 
with a mis-remembered stanza droning in his consciousness: 
He liveth best who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 
For the good God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all. 

Day after day the plow sang, and day after day its 
singing drew him more and more away from himself toward 
the universe. New thoughts, new feelings, began in him, 
at first vague, indefinite, formless, but developing rapidly 
toward definiteness and form, and at last his mind filled 
with the thought and feeling that human progress is as slow 
as time, and man's part therein but to fill the place he occu- 
pies, meanwhile eating, drinking, being merry if he can. 

June came — the June in which he was to have been 
graduated; the June, and the June day. The peach trees 
on the slopes were already bending with weight of fruit, 
and he looked across to them, and watched the willow twigs, 
breeze-shaken, and the stooping, merry pickers among the 
strawberries. Though he was silent, the plow sang long and 

Two days later, his father, coming home with mail, 
tossed him a roll of papers. Some one had sent him the 
account of commencement week. He thrust the package 
unopened into his pocket; and when, alone at night, he tore 
the wrapper, he lit the papers at the lamp, unread. 

j8 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

By Josiah C. Folsom 

ONE spring the Haseys sold their big house to strangers 
and left without so much as telling the names of 
buyers. So Mrs. Ballard, who lived next door, was 
all curiosity when a few days later carpenters ap- 
peared and spent a week in making alterations. The men 
somehow neglected to tell her the nature of their work and 
she considered it rather strange. The next day the strangers 
were in and getting settled. Mrs. Ballard went about her 
work with one eye almost constantly on their windows, 
hoping to get glimpses to satisfy her interest. But one of 
the first things accomplished was the hanging of curtains, 
and these were at once arranged to prevent an}^ one's looking 
in. The newcomers did not even come over to borrow a 
tack-hammer or a cup of cofTee, something unusual in people 
at moving time. Mrs. Ballard found herself becoming 
curious concerning her new neighbors. 

The next day the grocer called. He came to Ballard's 
from the Hasey place. 

"Who are the folks at Hasey 's?" Mrs. Ballard asked. 

"Troop, Miller Troop," Jones told her. 

"What'kind of people are they? What does Mrs. Troop 
look like?" she continued. 

"I didn't see no one but a big, black-bearded chap, 
though I heard some women around. He done all the 
business right at the door. Couldn't get a word out'n him 
'bout what they came here for, nothin' but business." 

This unprofitable search for information did not satisfy. 
So when Mrs. Ballard's best friend, Emma Vance, called, 
the ladies discussed the situation and resolved it became 
them to call upon their new neighbors. Accordingly they 
set out. 

At the Hasey place their knock was answered by the 
big, black-bearded man. He did not offer them admittance. 
Instead, his expression was anything but a pleasure. 

"Is Mrs. Troop in?" Mrs. Ballard asked. 

"I know no Mrs. Troop. I guess you are at the wrong 
house," was the unexpected reply. 

"But we were told the name was Troop. We mean the 
lady of the house. We are neighbors here and we thought 
we would call on her." 

A Country Comedy jg 

"I'm the lady of the house, madam, and my time is 
fully occupied without receiving callers." 

The women were too amazed at this unexpected turn of 
affairs to say "Good day" before the door closed. Then 
Mrs. Vance gasped, "What do you think of that?" 

Back at Ballard's they discussed the repulse at much 
length, and at supper time the master of the house listened 
to his wife's excited monologue. 

Then he remarked, "Ser\'ed you right for your infernal 
curiosit}' and gossiping. If they want to be let alone, better 
do it, Martha." But Martha was not so easily quieted. 

For a few days things ran smoothly. One morning the 
new neighbors started their piano. Someone played awhile, 
then raised voices were heard and the music broke oft. There 
was nothing remarkable in this except that the big. black- 
bearded man's voice rose above the others as he apparently 
interfered. At the first sound Mrs. Ballard ran to her dining- 
room window where she could hear best through the open 

"Well, if that ain't mean in him not to let "em play!" 
she commented. 

The uproars among the strangers were of almost daily 
occurrence. There could be heard the voices at the piano 
which soon became raised in disagreement and the man's 
voice broke in as he and one of the women quarreled. Mrs. 
Ballard could understand that the two threatened each 

One noon, after a morning's disturbance, John heard 
a detailed and excited report of the untoward doings at the 
Hasey place. 

"I wish someone would interfere,'" his wife went on, 
"I don't Hke such carn-ings-on. And if that big, black 
brute hadn't ought to be in jail, then I don't know. Good 
lands, but such things ought to be put a stop to!" 

"For heaven's sake, Martha," exclaimed her husband, 
"your blamed meddlesomeness and inquisitiveness ought to 
get hung. Those folks are big enough and old enough to 
look out for themselves, or else they wouldn't be there. 
You quit butting in or you'll make a fool of yourself some- 

The next forenoon Emma Vance came in to gossip. 
They were discussing the carr\-ings-on at the Hasey place 
when the piano was heard. 

"There now. they're at it again. Come in beside the 
dining-room window and we'll hear better," Martha led the 

^o The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

Voices soon rose and the music broke off. Then above 
these the commanding tones were heard. When the others 
had ceased talking, a woman quarreled shrilly and excitedly 
with him. Suddenly others interfered apparently, for con- 
fusion and excitement and uproar rose high. The two 
women at the Ballard windows sat with strained ears and 
fearful faces. 

"Is it like that every day?" Mrs. Vance whispered. 

"Yes," was the reply, "only that's worse than they 
ever scrapped before. But just hear that!" 

For all at once the piano began playing and the quarel- 
ling voices changed to a beautiful tenor and a strong, sweet 
contralto as they sang a rollicking duet. Others joined the 

The bewildered eavesdroppers stared at each other. 
"Well, if that ain't the craziest yet," gasped Mrs. Ballard. 

Thus affairs ran a couple of weeks. Moreover the 
strangers made no move to meet neighborly acts half way. 
Rarely did they show themselves outside their own house. 
Any curtains accidentally open were soon drawn or moved 
to prevent outsiders from looking in. The loud playing, sing- 
ing and quarreling went on with little variation. 

Wh}'^ people should be so exclusive and close, Mrs. 
Ballard could not conceive. And what kind of folks these 
strangers considered themselves with their unseemly and 
mystifying noises she could not imagine. Nor did anything 
tend to clear up her perplexities. John was unmoved by 
events : he was disposed to let things run their own course so 
long as he was unaffected. Mrs. Vance was as completely 
bewildered as Martha. And the Troop people simply added 
to the mystery. 

One morning Mrs. Vance came in again. The women 
were revolving the neighborhood mystery when sounds from 
the Hasey place brought them quickly to their places at 
the dining-room window. The piano and a violin were 
playing something new. Singers gathered and the chorus 
swelled. The tenor and contralto led. This stopped sud- 
denly. An excited and unintelligible dialogue between two 
women broke out. What the trouble was, the listeners 
could not tell. The excitement gave way to boisterous 
laughter and merriment. Others were evidently listening 
and ridiculing. Then the big man's voice came as he wrath- 
fully interfered. For a little, excitement ran high. Gradu- 
ally pa,rticipants dropped out until only the man and the 
woman of the contralto argued. They were plainly at 
swords' points. Then began the commotion of people run- 
ning about and others joined in the uproar. 

A Country Comedy <^/ 

"For the land's sake, what's coming next?" Mrs. Vance 

Her question received an unexpected answer. The 
man's voice rose above the others as he shouted, "Stop, 

woman! or I'll " The rest was drowned in screams. 

Suddenly two shots rang out and all was silent. 

For a moment the listeners in the Ballard dining-room 
stared at each other wHth blanched faces. Then as a cry 
came from the Hasey place, they sprang up. 

"It's murder! He's killed her!" 

They ran from the house, down through the orchard 
and into the fields where John Ballard and his men were 
working. The sudden appearanec of the terrified and scream- 
ing women made them stop in their tracks. 

"Oh, John! He's killed her! She's dead!" wailed his 

"Who's killed her? Who's dead?" The man ran to 
meet her. 

"That brute at Hasey 's!" 

"Come on, men, lively now! Hiram, run for Sawy'er! 
Eben, come with me, and the rest of you rout out the neigh- 

The men scattered on the run. With the women, John 
and Eben returned to the house to wait for the constable 
and to keep an eye on the Hasey place. All was quiet there. 

Soon the constable drove up and neighboring farmers 
began to run into the yard, some of them armed with the 
hoes and implements they had been working with. 

Saw}^er lost no time. He instructed the crowd to 
"Keep back" and to do as he said. 

"You women," he ordered, "come along to point out 
the chap if need be." This did not serve to calm their 

At the Hasey place the constable and an officer mounted 
the piazza and clanged the big brass knocker. The door 
opened and the big, black-bearded man appeared, his ex- 
pression one of wonder. 

"You're under arrest, sir!" Saw\-er grasped his arm. 

"Arrested, and for what?" The prisoner's surprise was 

Sawyer turned to the shrinking women at the foot of 
the steps. "This is the man, isn't it, ladies?" 

They nodded. "That's him." 

"Under arrest for murder, sir, and I'm going to investi- 
gate. Your name is Troop, isn't it?" 


4-2 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

"What then? The ladies said your name was Miller 

"No." Light of understanding and amusement crept 
into his face. "I'm Henry Thorpe, manager of the Miller 
Troupe. We're out here where it is quiet, practising our 
productions for next summer's vaudeville season. And what 
you thought was murder was a scene in one of our star acts." 
And he burst into hearty laughter. Puzzled faces had been 
appearing in the hall behind him, and now these took up the 

The constable, taken aback, apologized and released his 
hold. He turned to look for the women who had raised the 
alarm. But with crimson faces, those mortified persons 
were fast making their way back through the guffawing 

By Frederick D. Griggs 

Beside the glowing campfire, 

Neath the tall and stately pines; 
When shades of night are falling, 

And the new moon softly shines ; 
The night wind in the tree-tops. 

And the twinkling stars above ; 
With the fragrance of the spruces, 

That's the life I love. 
Away from smoky cities 

And the hurrying crowds of men; 
Away from strife and sadness; 

Never to return again; 
Far off in God's own country. 

Brave and happy, strong and free; 
Alone in the boundless forest. 

That's the life for me. 

The Wreck ^j 

?v Sumner C. Brooks 

HAJMMY'S boat, a thim'-foot cat, certainly was a beauty, 
and Ham my himself was a mighty good sailor, a 
Httle reckless maybe, but still a might}^ good man 
with a boat. But Dot Wells and I were tired of 
hearing him say so; and we. especialy Dot, wanted a chance 
to take down his vanit\'. 

The big storm — it came August 14. 1888, and the old 
sailors still talk of it— gave us the chance we wanted. It 
was a grey morni n g, the clouds were surging across the sky 
in great black masses, the sea was all black, with white caps 
as far as one could see, but there was no rain as yet. Truly 
it was a wicked day. with promise of worse to come, and we 
should have known better, but Dot and I dared Hammy 
to take us OA-er to Cottage CitA' and back: and he. although 
he too knew better, took our dare. 

Old Ben Draper heard us speak of our scheme, and 
knowing us to be the young fools that we were, whipped 
out, "Ef yer young idiots git outside 'er the jettj.' terday, 
yerTl never git in agin; the tide'll cut yer onter the Xobsque 
reef an' yer '11 go all ter smash. Yeu stay in here an watch 
yer hair grow." And old Eldred, the postmaster, started 
to say some warning word to us, but Hammy muttered 
something about "old grumblers." and "not being a squealer," 
and walked off toward the dock. "Come on you." he shouted^ 
and. excitedly. Dot and I followed. 

Under four reefs the stout Httle Helen worked out of 
the harbor. The tide was with us, running out through the 
narrow channel like a mill-race, and Xobsque point to the 
southeast cut off the worst force of the wind. Slowly we 
beat to windward; out past Xobsque, with its stunted trees, 
the httle red lighthouse and fog bell, with the huge breakers 
hissing and foaming among the ugly black boulders at its 
foot, out past the bell-buoy on the reef, where occasionally^ 
an ugly black boulder would show in the trough of a wave. 
As we passed far to leeward the beU-buoy clanged dolorously 
with a muffled beat that we heard only occasionally above 
the roar of white caps and the screams of the wind as it 
whined through the rigging. 

It surely was an ugly day. Again and again a huge, 
dirty black comber would rush at us, seeming to snarl at us 
with a white gleam as of cruel teeth; a^ain and agrain the 

jf4 T"^^ M. A. C. Liter ay Monthly 

staunch little boat rode the breakers, and sank down, down 
into an apparently bottomless trough, only to meet another 
great, angry wave. The tide had changed and was running 
with the wind, as we knew it would do before we reached the 
rips; but yet we were drenched through and through and 
blinded with spray long before we finally rounded East Chop 
and made for the breakwater. But our feeling of relief was 
short lived. A bungling skipper had let his two-master 
drag anchor, and there she was, right across the mouth of 
the jetty, breaking up fast, but still just as thoroughly block- 
ing the entrance to the harbor as would a whole mountain. 

So we had to turn around and start for home. Scarcely 
had we started back, running before the ever-increasing gale, 
when Hammy leaned over and screamed into my ear, "The 
rain," and pointed to windward. Surely enough. Cape 
Pogue was hidden in a dense bank of dull grey — the rain. 
In a minute Edgartown seemed to melt away into the mist; 
and in another minute we were alone, shut off from the 
world in a roaring chaos of wind and waves. But Hammy 
was undismayed. He'd get us in safe all right, he said. 
I was afraid, although for Dot's sake I pretended to trust 
in Hammy. Poor Dot's bravado had given out, and she 
sat crumpled up under the weather rail shivering and miser- 
able, and sobbing bitterly. 

For apparently endless hours we sat thus. During our 
long beat to windward the tide had run out, and now was 
coming in again, and against the wind. Of course, I can 
never know siirely, but I think we went through the worst 
place in the whole channel rips. The poor little boat reared 
like mad; the spray came inboard in solid sheets. Desper- 
ately Dot and I set to work bailing to help the boat to clear 
itself of water. Even Hammy gave in to fear, and when 
the captain is afraid, hope is small. But even the rips were 
soon passed, and again we sailed madly on, not knowing 
where we were, or how far we had come. 

Suddenly, close by, sounded the ghastly clangor of the 
bell-buoy — we were almost on top of the reef, but, thank 
lieaven, to the leeward. Quickly Hammy brought the boat 
a little nearer the wind, and all three of us hove in the main 
sheet. With all our strength we could gain but a few inches. 
Then just astern of us a huge wave broke, and in the follow- 
ing trough we caught one shuddering glimpse of the top of 
the reef; then it disappeared. 

Suddenly Hammy gave a sob of relief. Through a rift 
in the driving rain he had caught a glimpse of the light on 
"the gas-buoy, he said, and easing off the sheet he headed 
for the harbor mouth. We all began to hope again. 

The Wreck 45 

But in an instant our hopes were dashed. Almost in 
the same second, the fog-bell on Nobsque dinned on our 
ears during a lull in the wind, and through a rift in the rain 
the red secter of Nobsque glared horribly in our blanched 
faces. We were almost on the rocks of Nobsque! Hammy 
moved first. With a sudden scream he leaped to his feet 
and put the helm over hard, but heading for the harbor. 
There was his fatal move. For the fraction of a second the 
sail hung idly in the wind, and then, bellying inboard, with 
the full force of the gale behind it, leaped madly toward us. 
The heavy boom struck Hammy fairly in the head, and 
without a sound he disappeared. There was but one pos- 
sible end to that wild jibe. As the sail brought up sharply to 
leeward the mast snapped like a straw. The next instant 
the whole boat seemed to melt and disappear. I caught 
one wild glimpse of Dot struggHng in the wreckage, and then 
I remember no more. 

I came to in the little red house of the lighthouse keeper, 
who^ had found ine and had slowly coaxed me back to life. 

In the bright calm of the morning after the storm they 
had found Dot among the rocks just below the fog-bell; 
near her was Hammy 's cap, but Hammy they never found. 

®If^ M. K C Stterarg iicntijlg 

BERNHARD OSTROLENK, '11, Editor-in-chief 




Business Manager 

HORACE M. BAKER, '13, Assistant Business Manager, 

The subscription price of this magazine is $1.00 a year. Single 
copies, 15 cents. 

Contributions are earnestly solicited from all undergraduates. 
All contributions should be addressed to the Editor of The M. A. C. 
Literary Magazine, and should be in his hands before the 12th day 
of the month. 

Entered as Second-class Matter, Feb. 1, 1910, at the Post Office, 
Amherst, Mass. 


OUR little craft. The Literary Magazine, had barely 
begun its voyaging under the piloting of its founders 
when these pilots found it necessary to relinquish 
the wheel. The magazine, though scarcely more 
than launched, quickly gathered way under the retiring 
board, and the new board hopes for a continuance of fair 
winds and fortunate adventures, that the "Lit" shall carry 
many cargoes through many years. The first officers retire 
with the achievement to their credit of having shown the 
magazine to be seaworthy and of having commanded with 
dignity and high standards of duty. So to continue will be 
the aim of those who now assume direction. 

:); H= * ^ 5): 

S~~niMULTANEOUS with the stirring "Call of the Country 
Parish," appealing to the sound, strong and high 

^^W ideals in man, comes the story of a New England 

J pastor who for months has received no salary. As 

a result he and his family have been forced to live impover- 
ished and humiliated. We question whether this is not an 
extreme case, but we have no doubt that many such cases 
exist, differing from this one only in degree. The town of 
four thousand population having eight or more congrega- 

Editorials /fj 

tions, each struggling under a heavy debt and unable to 
pay either a regular or an adequate salar}^ to its minister 
is as common as it is unedifying. 

Meantime, from Canada comes a suggestion for unifying 
the church. Its details we do not know; but if its object 
is the consolidation of the many denominations, enabling 
the united church people of a town to build a church of 
such architecture as would indicate a developed esthetic 
sense and to engage one minister of the ability of him whom 
President Butterfield sees in his vision — giving him more 
opportunity and more incentive — if the Canadian plan 
promises to give us this instead of the present restricted 
denominational work, it is deserving of thoughtful study. 
To M. A. C. men it should be of especial significance, for to 
them especially was addressed "The Call of the Country 

^ ^ i(i if. ^ 

N a recent discussion of the relation of immigration 
to the farm, the fact was pointed out that immi- 
grants settling upon farms have less opportunity to 
become Americanized than their brethren in the 
cities have. At the very door of M. A. C. are a large number 
of foreign-bom farmers, thrifty and apparently eager to im- 
prove, yet in no wise reached or influenced by the college 
that renders so much service to thousands of other farmers 
more distant from it. One attempt has been made by M. A. 
C. students to serve these new New Englanders. It failed, but 
the problem deserves further study. Obviously it is wise to 
direct immigrants to the farm rather than to congested 
cities. Obviously, too, machinery must be provided to 
teach these strangers our English speech, to acquaint them 
with our institutions and to explain to them the conditions 
of success. Such work is peculiarly the mission of M. A. C. 
men. The attempt to establish countr}^ schools and clubs 
for the purpose of Americanizing our foreign-bom farmers 
should not be abandoned because of a single failure, nor 
of repeated failures. The opportunity for rendering social 
service is at our doors. 

A dveriisemen t 







DEUEL'S Drug Store, 


M. A. C. Sltt^ranj iinntl|lg 

Vol. I May, 19 io No. 4 

By Nils P. Lars en 

The sun has crimsoned new the east, 

The mom is clear, the earth is pleased. 

Into the woods — gay, jubilant — 

My spirit fresh moves dominant. 

The trees stand tall, majestic, grand — 

Erst grave kings of a solemn land ; 

But, breathless through their branches bare. 

The faint wind makes mute music there. 

I bend my head, in joy I hear 

The chirp of birds, glad, free, and near. 

Wondering, I cast about my eyes. 

And see how faint-heart winter flies. 

Beneath my steps the grass is green; 

On early limbs, first leaves are seen 

Peeping and wondering, is time come 

To laugh, and brave old winter glum? 

To drippling brooklets then I turn, 

Newly awakened in the bum; 

Beside the sparkling streamlet there, 

I spy the violet, pure and fair, 

The Mayflower, and the bluet best. 

Ah! now life's life with keener zest. 

50 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

All m a ^umm^r'a IScrk 

By he on Terry, 1912 

O you are quite decided to go back tonight ?" queried 
Mr. Judson, a rotund little man, with eyes shining 
cunningly out of a fat face, and always mopping off 
sweat with a red bandanna handkerchief. He con- 
tinued: "As I say, Mr. Tucker, I am sorry you can't stay 
with me. There would be a good future for you here; there 
is the quarry and the saw-mill and the boxshop, and, of 
course, always the hogs. Anyway, you are studying agri- 
culture, and I would give you $1500 a year to start with, 
and maybe an interest in the business. And hogs are going 
up, too, all the time. Yes, siree! Well, you just think it 
over, and I'll be going to the postofhce." 

And Mr. Judson walked, or rather rolled, out of the 
room. He was the king of the little hilltown, and was 
ambitious to have the best farm, the best hogs, the best 
everything in town. Acting mostly on this principle, he had 
married the handsomest girl in the county, a school teacher, 
and graduate of Smith College. And he was almost as proud 
of her as of his prize-winning stock. 

When this very energetic person had vanished, the other 
two at the table continued their supper in silence. The sun, 
low in the west, was pouring its rays through the open window 
and lit up gloriously the golden hair and deep wine-brown 
eyes of Mrs. Regina Judson. 

She was looking straight ahead at Tucker, who had 
worked for her husband during the summer vacation. But 
Tucker did not even glance up at Mrs. Judson. They seldom 
talked, for Tucker both pitied and half despised her. Even 
now he was thinking: 

"Yes, I made a shrewd guess in keeping away from you 
all through the summer. So your Smith College education 
is troubling you, after all, and you are not satisfied with 
that fat . . . person. Though you chose him so as to have 
comfort the whole of your life, yet now you would like to 
have someone else make love to 3^ou. Well, I would hardly 
care to take the job ... " 

Supper over, Tucker was smoking a cigar on the veranda 
steps and watching the sun, just setting beyond the lake. 
Mrs. Judson came out, and sitting down, asked him: 

All in a Summer s Work 5/ 

"I suppose you are glad to be going back to college?" 

Perhaps it was the beauty of the quiet evening or the 
satisfaction he felt that the summer's work was over, but he 
answered warmly: 

"Yes, I am glad to be going back. There is much work 
to be done. This is my last year, and next spring I will 
graduate and be a free man. And then ..." 

"And then you will have so much fun. The informals, 
and of course Hamp is so near . . . Boys used to come 
over pretty often when I was at Smith. And the girls like 
you, don't they, Mr. Tucker?" 

"No, I don't go to Hamp very often. I used to when 
I was a freshman, and I met a lot of girls there; some were 
bright, and some were just girls; some took life seriously, 
and some called me John the second time I met them; and 
surely I gave them no cause for such familiarity." 

Mrs. Judson began to laugh. She had a low, quiet 
laugh that seemed to flow with a slow ripple into your soul, 
and nestle there. 

"Yes, I am quite sure you gave them no pretext for 
calling you 'John.' You are not fond of flirting, and yet 
you are so strong and manly that girls must be falling in 
love with you all the time. I shouldn't think it would be 
hard for you to find the right one . . . That is, unless you 
have already found her?" 

"Why, of course I wouldn't let any girl call me by my 
first name, unless I loved her more than anybody else; more 
than my future, my honor, the whole world, all this ..." 
With his hand he swept the view before them, the broad, 
placid lake, from which light fog was rising; the western sky 
now rapidly darkening, and the first star just twinkling 
timidly and tenderly. "But that will never happen — light- 
ning does not strike in the same place twice. Let me tell 
you ..." 

Tucker puffed a few times at his cigar, and then said, 
abruptly : 

"When I went away to college I could hardly read and 
write, though I was of age and was engaged to be married. 
I had to work and study at the same time, and it wasn't 
easy . . . Well, the girl waited for me just two years, and 
then married the village storekeeper. That was four years 
ago, and now she has three kids. It was a common enough 
ending; she wrote me a sixteen-page letter, and said on the 
last page, that he was a better provider. At the time it 
affected me badly, but now I can smile when I think of the 

5-2 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

whole sordid affair. I am safe now ; after you see the strings 
the puppets don't amuse you." 

He threw away his cigar, as if it tasted bitter, and gazed 
moodily at the ground. Mrs. Judson also was looking down, 
though her heart beat furiously. She was glad Tucker was 
speaking to her so sincerely. 

At last she said: "I am happy that we are parting as 
friends, for I haven't many friends, and all summer you 
have behaved as a stranger. Won't you tell me, as you 
would a friend, just what you think of me?" 

She half smiled, as she said this, but, glancing at her, 
Tucker noticed a very wistful, longing look in her eyes, and 
in spite of his better judgment, he answered to their appeal: 

"I had a dog once that went in swimming on a hot day. 
A big freshet came and carried Jip over the dam. Still he 
managed to swim near the shore, but some boys started 
throwing rocks at him. All cut up, and struggling against 
the fierce current, he finally reached the shore, crawled out 
. . . and died." 

"But I don't see the bearing. I must be stupid. Won't 
you explain your story ?" 

But Tucker silently gazed ahead. The forest across the 
lake moved closer, and looked darkly over the cliffs. The 
wind blew lightly and coolly. The sky was all sombre but 
for one rosy bank of clouds. A big night bird flew out of 
the quiet night and silently hovered on high. 

Tucker leaned a little forward. Near the side of his 
head was a- little foot, swinging lightly. The white skin 
showed through the modest black stocking. Tucker turned 
away his head. 

It grew darker and rather chilly. Then Mrs. Judson 
said low and quietly: "Won't you get my coat, Johnnie?" 

"Poor girl," thought Tucker; "she will never reach 
shore." He rose, went into the house and brought the coat. 
Mrs. Judson was standing when Tucker handed her the coat. 

"It is getting cool, Mrs. Judson," he said, "I have to be 
starting for my train now." 

A tremor seemed to pass through her; she caught at the 
railing just as Judson stumbled up the veranda steps, ex- 
claiming, "Pork's gone up a half a cent!" 

Tucker was staring into the darkness through the window 
of the east-bound train. "Wipe the slate clean, and start 
all over again," he thought. "But she will never reach the 
shore. And I, too, had to throw a stone — poor girl!" 

One Tendency of the Modern Play jj 

i§Vit ©^nJi^tirg 0f tlf^ UnJi^rn flag 

By Julius Matz 

TiHE modem play, which means drama, comedy and 
musical comedy, is of great value, not only for its 
^^^ direct suggestiveness by means of the object lessons 
^^^ ^ it gives in morals and virtue, but also for its indirect 
bearing upon mind and character. Among modem plays, 
not a few show a psychological tendency, or rather possess 
a psychic element. This is found in many of the latest 
plays, which therefore open the more mysterious comers of 
the human heart and soul for those who are inclined to think. 
The influence of such plays may be termed indirect because 
they usually attempt to reveal some hitherto obscure psycho- 
logical trait, or to show character as it is formed or mis- 
formed by psychological and spiritual influences rather than 
merely by external facts. They constitute a drama of the 

It would be unwise to say that the plot in the plays 
produced today always has great importance. Many of the 
best recent plays have almost no plot, so far as incident and 
outward action go — the action of events. We do not any 
more expect the author to kill the villain, in the last act or 
elsewhere; nor to reward the young lover with his — momen- 
tary — heart's desire. What many of us now Hke in a play 
is, the exposure of the villain's characteristics, of his strange 
traits and peculiarities. We want to study his peculiar 
moral gearing as we see his wheels go round. We may, 
indeed go further and say that many playgoers hai^e long 
since lost their interest completely in the villain and the 
passionate lover. We have done away with the hero of 
deeds as the chief character on the stage; characters such as 
we meet on the street, in the parlor and in the office — or 
rather we ourselves — often occupy the first place on the stage, 
of today. Even in musical comedy the ordinary person 
frequently appears prominently as a character. Contem- 
porary play -writers and actors are studying and are attempt- 
ing to make plain those impulses which' are behind human 
strife and actions, especially the strife and action of familiar 

Those who have seen "The Music -Master," in which 
David Warfield has now played four years, will recall that 

5^ The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

the acme of the play is reached, not by the development of 
"story," nor through the culmination of extraneous occur- 
ence. The point of highest interest in the play is that which 
is devoted to a deep psychological demonstration that shows 
us amazingly what is taking place in the heart of the chief 
character. The music master is in the home of the man 
who robbed him of his wife and child. Facing his child, and 
realizing that he can bring disgrace and evil upon her by 
making himself known as her father, he leaves, — the secret 
kept in his heart. 

Abraham's leading his only son, Isaac, to the altar for 
the sake of his God was a demonstration of noble devotion; 
but a poor, lone, aged father's sacrificing his own happiness 
for the welfare of his child is a sign of nobler devotion. It 
is not merely the nobility of the old man that impresses us, 
it is also the anatysis of that undefinable emotion, father-love. 

"Clarice," a play written and performed by William 
Gillette, is a play without "plot," and without important 
outward incidents; yet it received the greatest ovation. In 
this play, too, the interest is in the inner, not the outer life. 
A doctor, in love with Clarice, denies his love because he 
knows that he will not make her happy. Such contraversions 
of feelings arouse earnest thought, and so stimulate deeper 
study of the complexity of human nature and the meaning 
of human life. 

Numerous plays now on the stage present clearly change 
taking place in character as the action develops. There is 
less shifting. of scenes, less creating of "incident" — because 
the play is no more a story, a series of events, but a vista 
of the heart, the spiritual history of one great moral deed. 

There are plays, written especially to fit the ability and 
personality of certain actors, that more than any others, 
represent this modem type. They are strongly personal, 
they lay the greatest emphasis upon character, and they are 
keenly analytical. "The Man from Home," in which William 
Hodge is the central actor, is a fair example. Robert Edeson, 
in the "Noble Spaniard," presenting a most queer and striking 
character, affords further example in making more clear the 
persistent, whimsical character of the man he represents. 
Even the comic characters of the vaudeville stage show us 
this tendency. The comedian is no longer the fool of the 
ancient plays. Eddy Foy, Louis Mann, Lew Fields, Harry 
Lauder, are not clowns, but artists. Their work on the 
stage is, to show us pictures not merely of the outer, but 
also of the inner man with the greatest detail and exactness. 

Jimmie Griggs' Success ^^ 

Jfimmi^ (Srtggs' i^urr^BB 

By Albert R. Jenks 

HURRY up with the breakfast, Sarah." 
The words were harshly spoken by Hiram 
Griggs to his wife, when he came in from doing his 
morning's chores. 

"What is your hurry this morning, Hiram?" asked 
Sarah, quietly. 

She felt more like revolting from th,e tyrannical rule of 
her husband than of sympathizing with him. 

"Oh! I suppose that I have got to go to town this morn- 
ing and see if I can get some men to help hay it. The grass 
is all nearly ready to cut. If Jimmie would get out and do 
half as much work a day as I do, there 'd be no need of my 
getting extra help this summer. The crop's going to be 
very poor." 

In a gentle voice Sarah began to speak for her ambiitous 
son, Jimmie; he was already doing a man's work in the field, 
although he was only 17 years old. His greatest ambition 
was to go to an agricultural college. Jimmie had worked 
hard on the farm from boyhood, and had with difficulty 
finished his high school course. He had tried to introduce 
up-to-date methods on the home farm, but his tyrannical 
father rejected all his plans. Jimmie was left to his dreams 
of success in a little workshop over the wagon shed. 

Jimmie's room had a window that opened on the roof, 
so that he could easily crawl out after he was supposed to 
have gone to bed, and enter his shop. There Jimmie had 
spent many an evening working out plans, reading and study- 
ing, and he had amassed no small amount of knowledge, 
which he would like to put to use. His father, however, 
would do nothing different from what his father and grand- 
father had done; therefore Jimmie's plans were always shat- 

Jimmie was thinking of going to college in the fall, even 
though he had to run away to do it; and he was eagerly 
waiting for a chance to do something which would convince 
his father that he was right. While his father and mother 
were discussing the need of extra help, Jimmie came in from 
doing his morning's chores. 

5<5 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

"Why don't you buy or hire an up-to-date mowing 
machine and hay -rake?" he said, eagerly. "I will run them 
both, and the two of us can easily handle our crop this year, 
if only there's a week more of good weather," he added. 

"Hm! A lot you know about running those machines. 
You're just looking for a chance to ride around instead of 
getting out and doing your share of the work. Why, if I 
put a mowing machine in my lots, there would be a two-inch 
stubble left all over my fields. Think I'm going to waste 
one-fifth of my crop ? Father used to say that hand-raked 
hay was worth $5.00 more a ton than horse-raked hay. 
Likely I'll let you try your foolish ideas here on my farm.^ 
If you would spend half the time in work that you put on 
dreaming, I might be able to lay up a few dollars a year." 

Nothing more was said; Hiram's word was law. 

Hiram went to town and spent, the day looking for help ; 
but as there was a good demand for help just then, and as 
he would not pay current wages, he got no help. When his 
father got home, Jimmie had the chores all done. 

Little was said at the supper table, but all were doing a 
lot of thinking. After supper, Jimmie asked his father how 
much it would cost him to hire help at the price he had 
intended to pay. 

"Well, I couldn't get off without at least $75.00." 

"Will you give me $60.00 for the job if I do it, but do 
it by machine? You'll have to furnish the old team and 
your own labor for a week." 

Jimmie's father did some thinking much quicker than he 
was used to doing it. He hated to let the grass spoil and 
he hated to give in to Jimmie. At last he gave in to his 
passion. "No, I won't. I'd be out the $60.00 and the grass 
too, unless I did all the work myself. I won't waste my 
money just to let you show what a fool you are." 

They spent two da5^s in the hayfield; they spoke hardly 
an unnecessary word. Again Hiram went to town in search 
of help. He felt confident that he would get it and by so 
doing turn the tables on his son. But his efforts were vain; 
the workmen all knew the length of a day's work demanded 
by him and the amount of pay it would earn. 

Sunday morning Jimmie renewed his offer. Hiram went 
to the window and looked out. His waving fields of blos- 
soming grass were before him. He stood a long time silent. 
It was a time of struggle — a chance of saving his grass against 
the certainty of yielding a prejudice. At last he turned. 

"It is just in its prime now, Jimmie," he said, sheep- 
ishly, "and, — I guess that I will let you go to work in the 

Jimmie Griggs Success 57 

No happier moment had Jimmie ever known. 

"Where's your machines?" Hiram asked, sharply. 

"Mr. Green's grass is never ready when ours is. I went 
to see him about hiring his machines. He won't need them 
for a week and he agreed to let me have them for $10.00," 
replied Jimmie. 

"Well, you'll break your neck, or bang up the machines, 
or spoil the grass or do something else. But go ahead. You 
won't believe me till you've tried it. Maybe I can save as 
much hay as I would have saved the other way. There 
isn't any other way out of it now." 

Jimmie spent the rest of Sunday in looking over the fields 
and laying plans for the week's work. Monday morning 
found Jimmie up, chores done, and the mowing machine 
running before breakfast. As the weather promised to re- 
main good, he laid down all the field. His father cut in the 
comers, and even caught a happy mood from the unceasing 
clatter of the knives. By night the field was cocked up, and 
the next field was laying flat. Hiram acknowledged to his 
son that it was mowed as clean as he or his father could 
have mowed it. 

Jimmie went to bed early and slept as only farmer's sons 
can sleep. Tuesday proved a fine hay day; the only thing 
to mar Jimmie's satisfaction was his running into a hornet's 
nest towards evening. "Father said he'd get stung," said 
the boy, half sarcastically. "It appears that I'm the one." 

By Wednesday night more than half the hay was in. 
On Thursday, Jimmie cut the rest of the meadow, much 
against his father's wishes. 

Friday proved lowry, and the meadow grass did not dry 
out rapidly. Mr. Green, however, offered his help and the 
use of his tedder. But "thunder heads" began to rise and 
to flit across the horizon. Jimmie constantly teddered the 
hay and soon after dinner it was ready to rake. If only the 
shower would hold off till evening, the hay would all be in. 
But the clouds drew nearer and nearer; a hard shower was 
inevitable. Two teams, however, were fast carting the hay 
into the bam. At five o'clock only two loads remained in 
the field. The storm was near at hand, however, and thunder 
could be heard; the sun was hid. Mr. Green called his hired 
man to help. Everv^one hurried as if he had not already 
done a big day's work. On the racks the hay piled up 
swiftly. Would they win ? They were loading the last load, 
but the lightning was darting here and there and the thunder 
■was bellowing in all parts of the heavens. Raindrops began 

^8 The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

to fall. Could tliev make it? Only five more "tumbles," 
and the field would be cleared. 

The five "tumbles" were on; men and wagons then 
rushed for shelter. Scarcely had they reached shelter when 
the rain began to pour; and it continued to pour all night. 
The color of all the outstanding neighbor's hay was ruined. 

That night Jimmie's joy knew no bounds. He had 
accomplished what he set out to do; he had " 'shown' Father." 
But what would come of it after all? Had Father "seen"? 
When good weather returned, Jimmie and his father helped 
Mr. Green to get in his hay. 

Jimmie followed up his recent success. His father con- 
sented to the purchase of a good windmill, a good cultivator, 
and other labor-saving machinery. Moreover, when Jimmie 
was paid for his big week's work, he received $100.00 instead 
of the $60.00; his father said that timely cutting had added 
quality to the hay. 

Nor was that all. About the first of September, Jimmie 
was called into the sitting-room one evening by his father. 
To his surprise, his father made several offers in regard to 
his future. He, seriously considering them all, gave up his 
hope of a four-year's course at the agricultural college. 
Instead he staid at home as a partner with his father and 
took the ten-v/eek's course which was offered at the college 
in January of the next year. 

The farm prospered as a result of hard work and better 
methods. When questioned about his success, Jimmie 
always lays it to the mowing machine coupled with good 

The Importance of the Study of Rural Sociology §g 

SIj^ Smpnrtattr^ xiiX\\t #t«ig nf Sural 

By Samuel W. Menduwi 



N the last forty years the agricultural resources of 
this countr}^ have been vastly developed: new fields 
have been opened up by the railroads; changes in 
the lines of agriculture in various districts have been 
brought about by competition; our agricultural colleges have 
scattered all over the countr}^ a band of enthusiastic and 
intelHgent workers; the United States Department of Agri- 
culture and the experiment stations, through their scien- 
tific investigations and widely spread reports, haA^e greatly 
increased the ef&cienc}^ of the industr\^ With this- 
increased efficiency have come many of the comforts and 
adA^antages enjoyed by people in the cities; the farmer was 
never so well off as he is today. Yet there are many defi- 
ciencies: country Hfe does not measure up to its possibilities. 

Notwithstanding all the improA-ement in the conditions 
in the countn", there is a strong spirit of unrest among the 

Some of the sources of this unrest are obAdous. Disre- 
gard of the inherent rights of the soil-worker b}' speculators 
in lands, monopolistic control of natural resources, and 
restraint of trade, against which the farmer, alone, unor- 
ganized, can poorly defend his interests; poor highway's and 
difficult intercommunication ; failure to appreciate soil deple- 
tion and its effects; the difficulties involved in the agricul- 
tural labor problem; the hard and unrelieAxd life of the 
women of the farm; unsanitarA' conditions and equipment 
in the countrA^; — these are pointed out in the report of the 
commission on countrA' life as the main special deficiencies 
in countr}' life. 

For these deficiencies the remedies lie with all the people, 
working together through the gOA^emment, through organiz- 
ations, and through indiA'idual effort, for the common end. 
"The problem of countrA^ life is one of reconstruction; tem- 
porary measures and defense work alone will not soh^-e it." 
The underlying problem is how to dcA'elop and maintain on 

6o The M. A. C. Literary Monthly 

our farms a civilization in full harmony with the best American 
ideals. This means that the business of agriculture must 
be made to yield a reasonable return to those who follow it 
intelligently; and that life on the farm must be made per- 
manently satisfying to intelligent, progressive people." 

But in order to deal intelligently with any situation we 
must know the underlying facts. In dealing with the problem 
of country life, we must study for ourselves the actual con- 
ditions in the country, general and local. Only when we 
know these actual conditions can we understand the causes 
for them and perceive the means of improving them. We 
must have this knowledge of conditions if we wish to act 
intelligently upon the suggestions of others; we must know 
how to use our tools. 

Nor is the study of the conditions of country life and 
its institutions a matter for consideration on the part 
of only those who intend to go to the country; it is a matter 
for all intelligent people. Farmers, business men, profes- 
sional men, students, ministers, legislators, will all find 
pleasure and profit in it. All the people are to help in rural 
betterment; all the people should study the means of accom- 
plishing this betterment. 

Herein lies the importance of the study of rural sociology. 

l|0m t0 ®0U a iurk from a Ollftrk^n 

By R. N. Hallowell 

F you would tell a duck from a chicken, after per- 
suading someone who can tell them apart to place 
them side by side on a barn-yard roost, within easy 
sight and hearing; give the feet of each a casual 
examination. You will note that those of one are webbed 
and that those of the other are not. You may feel certain 
that the web-footed bird is a duck and that the other is a 
chicken. If, however, the feet of neither bird are webbed 
(some duck owners cut the webs from their ducks' feet in 
order that they may not swim) , give one of the birds a kernel 
of com. The other bird will at once quack or make a sound 

Life 6 1 

unlike a quack, to let you know that it, too, desires a kernel 
of com. If it quacks, you may feel certain that it is a duck; 
if it makes a sound other than a quack, you may be sure 
that it is a chicken. 

Or to distinguish a duck from a chicken, you may visit 
each in its own haunts; for ducks and chickens will not 
come to you to be classified. You will find neither ducks 
nor chickens on Boston Common or on the dome of the 
State House or on the Harvard College campus; in fact, 
you will rarely find a duck or a chicken in any urban com- 
munity. Therefore, seek the duck and the chicken on the 
country farm — seek them in the early morning, when the 
sunlight is bright enough to permit of no mistake in identi- 
fication; and use the simple key to their classification that 
I have given you. 


MAN comes into this world without his consent and 
leaves it against his will. During his stay on earth, his 
time is spent in one continuous round of contraries and 
misunderstandings. In his infancy, he is an angel; in his 
boyhood, he is a devil; and in manhood, everything from 
a lizard up. In his duties, he is a fool. If he raises a family, 
he is a chump; if he doesn't, the world pities him. If he 
is a poor man, he is a poor manager and has no sense; if he 
is rich, he is dishonest, but considered smart. If he is in 
politics, he is a grafter and a crook; if he is out of politics, 
you can't place him — he is an undesirable citizen. If he 
goes to church, he is a hypocrite; if he stays away from 
church, he is a sinner. If he gives to foreign missions, he 
does it for show, and if he does not give, he is a tight wad. 
When he first comes into the world, everybody wants to 
kiss him. Before he goes out, everybody wants to kick 
him. If he dies young, there was a bright future before 
him; if he lives to a ripe old age, he is in the way and is only 
living to save funeral expenses. Life is a queer proposition. 
You may consider yourself lucky if you get out of it alive. 

©Ijp M. A. a. Sttprarg iionJlflg 

BERNHARD OSTROLENK, '11, Editor-in-chief 




Business Manager 
HORACE M. BAKER, '13, Assistant Business Manager, 

The subscription price of this magazine is $1.00 a year. Single 
copies, 15 cents. 

Contributions are earnestly solicited from all undergraduates. 
All contributions should be addressed to the Editor of The M. A. C. 
Literary Magazine, and should be in his hands before the 12th day 
of the month. 

Entered as Second-class Matter, Feb. 1, 1910, at the Post Office, 

Amherst, Mass. 


BEFORE the next issue goes to press, M. A. C. students 
will be asked, Can M. A. C. support a literary maga- 
zine ? ' The answer will largely be influenced by the 
esteem in which the experimental attempt of the 
"Lit" is held. It does not behoove us to help shape the 
verdict; our opinion is liable to be considered biased. It 
would benefit no one to deceive ourselves at this juncture, 
and it is part of wisdom to get unbiased, competent criticism 
of our past achievements. We therefore cheerfully grant the 
floor to Professor Neal to review four months of the "Lit." 

AN M. A. C. support a literary magazine? 

Four issues of the "Lit" answer the question. 

Notwithstanding the numerous difficulties that always 

lie in the way of new undertakings of the sort, M. A. C. 

has supported a magazine — one of which we may be proud. 

I do not mean that the "Lit" has been perfect; in this, 

that, or the other thing, it might suffer by comparisons. But 

for a newly founded periodical, it has been all that we could 

Editorials 63 

reasonably expect it to be. Indeed, I think it has been more 
than any prudent prophet would have forecast; it has been 
more than we who encouraged it would have been satisfied 
with. And the best thing in its record is, the evidencing of 
possibilities: what the "Lit" plainly can be is worth time, 
money and effort upon. 

The most immediate danger that the "Lit" must meet 
is, lack of money. Yet, without soliciting advertising or 
alumni subscriptions, the students have maintained it half 
a year. With the recognition of the magazine as a perma- 
nent part of our college life, and with the formulation of a 
permanent business policy, the financial difficulties should be 

A second danger is more remote, yet greater — lack of 
worthy copy. Yet this danger is perhaps less than some 
anticipated. The response on the part of individual students 
to the need of the magazine has been ready. The magazine 
has had copy for every issue; it has had a good deal of copy 
that was good, and some copy that was better than good. 
Every article in the present issue was written expressly for 
the "Lit," and more copy was offered than could be used. 

Evidently in M. A. C, as elsewhere, the scientific spirit 
broadens minds and deepens sympathies. Evidently M. A. C. 
stands for things immaterial as well as for things material; 
the college has a place for a literary magazine, and the men 
to make it. 

Next year, moreover, the literary support ought to in- 
crease. Nineteen eleven has men of various interests; 1912 
has a considerable number of men who can do work of good 
literary quality; and 1913 has already put forward a number 
of men who incline naturally to the literary expression of 
their ideals. Good material ought to be plenty. 

More men should find an interest in the magazine, too, 
with the introduction of more criticism. The "Lit" has 
been too exclusively confined to fiction and verse. In the 
present number a hint is given of the possibilities of the 
magazine as a periodical of discussion. It can readily be- 
come our local exchange for ideas. Many a man knows 
intimately some one thing about which many other men 
would like to know. Criticism, the presentation of indi- 
vidual thought, the interchange of ideas, will add much to 
the usefulness of the "Lit." 

What next, then? The first period of the magazine's 
existence is over. Shall it have a second ? The four experi- 
mental numbers seem to give sufficient answer. Let the 
"Lit" go on. 

A dvertisemen t 







DEDEL'S Drug Store, 


m^mmr^ji''M'nm ■ 

i^'J K- J!»' 

inoiiiitaii:, . 

;_ -; '.nit- liowerB- rna.^ 

IciivS 10 


vu/ ir. ji ,! 



Before going " over tiie river or the 
m:Ountain." ' It will pay you in. the end. 

T ':■ 3 clioicest of all the leading, varieties 
of cut. flo¥7ers may foe had' at short notice. 
Prices reasong^ble.' Telephone 300 or call 
on " Doc." 


M. A. C. Literary 





nhusettsi J^^'ricuttUrnl Cotlez^ 

7"-.C::l- Koing ''over the river or tlio 
moiiiitaia. It will pay you in the end.. 
The choicest of all the leaeling varieties 
I of cut flowers may be had at short notice. 
I Prices reasohable. Telephone 300 or call 
on "Doc'' 







No. 4 \ 


M. A. C. Literary 






Massachusetts Agricultural College 


Zbc HD/B. (T. Xlterar^ flDontbl^ 

Table of Contents for May 

When Winter Flees, - - - A'^i/s P. Larsen 49 
All in a Summer's Work, - - - Leon Terry \ 50 

One Tendency of the Modern Play, - Julius Maiz 53 

JiMMiE Griggs' Success, - - - Albert R. Jenks 55 
The Importance OF the Study of Rural Sociology, 

Samuel W: Mendiim 59 

How To Tell a Duck From a Chicken, R. N. Hallowell 60 

Life, - - - . - - - - 61 

Editorial 62 


Before going "over the river or the 
mountain." It will pay you in the end. 

The choicest of all the leading varieties 
of cut flowers may be had at short notice. 
Prices reasonable. Telephone 300 or call 
on "Doc." 





Offers superior advantages for work 
in Agriculture, Horticulture, and Al- 
lied Sciences. The curriculum, which 
is designed primarily for a technical 
training, is well balanced with 
courses in English, Modern Lan- 
guages, Economics, Rural Sociology, 
Pedagogy, and Physical Education. 

Ideally located. Constantly grow- 
ing. Expenses moderate. 



Local Agent, 


M; a. C. '82. 

When you want anything In my line, Call at my 






Visit the AGGIE STOR 






s.;,:iers superior advuBtage;:. /: 
in Agriciiit"ure, Horticiilture, 
lied Sciences. TIi.ecuia.;': ■.,■ ■ 
-.;.. desigiieci primarily n-'- 
training, is ■ well \^ .y, I :. , 
courses in : English, 
guages,- Eeonomicsv ^^', \'' ; : 
Pedagogy, and r.--:'-'. ', -v 
I(1.eally , locates ■ . cii. Li 

Expenses ,, ■. 

J ti ■ 


lift - y 


^ Jj" V' -I X v^-i i_ J« 

iied Sci-onces. Tli'^ ^^^ • ^ ^-ici . 
is design^''' -j^^^^'ti^ ,^ or"' ' 
training, i., ^-^^ ^ ^ '"• 

courses in En e _ , . . x**^ 

guagcs, Economics, Eural Si 
■^^'f^ ^^ogy- and Ph^^^-"'-al Edm. ;*.■.. 
ia-::jaily located, w^^iiste-^-^i'-' ^'^^'^-^ 

KEfiKflN- I.. eyTTEWIi: 





'4 WE)K«II rrltallM i4i»r^ , 



[!)■«.. .O.AI^3>"^^ 


f.'^^'y^' : 

■mi^ p 

ioKS Ecull '^tcua B ^ 




^^.H miTF. 

', T;?fs11 

; , J ced w ■ ■' 

■'.;"* r'-flt;f!^'_| 




1 . '"caf^: 

r ; . ■"•■•■5'.ijir-!*»